Close to Broken
by darkforetold
Summary: It is 1932. Castiel, the adopted son, serves as the Sant'Angelo crime family's hitman, a ruthless soldier who kills indiscriminately without questions. Suddenly, in the face of the man he once loved, everything seems to fall apart.
1. Part I

_"There is no cause to worry. The high tide of prosperity will continue."_

—_Andrew W. Mellon, Secretary of the Treasury, _

_1929 regarding the Great Depression_

It is 1932 and the Great Depression grips the world in a severe, economic downturn, leaving the rich and poor alike in dire straits. It is a time of suffering… but not for everyone. Those who have turned to crime thrive in the stability and glory of the Prohibition, finding success in the lucrative smuggling of alcohol. They are members of the _Cosa Nostra_, made men vying for position, wealth and fame in a dying world.

**The Mafioso**

"_And our bodies are earth. And our thoughts are clay. And we sleep and eat with death."_

—_Paul Bäumer, All Quiet on the Western Front_

_**Chicago, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

"So, you've come to deal with the Devil."

The half-hearted greeting came in a slow, calculated cadence. Giuliano Mietitore sat behind the ornate, red-cherry desk, bony fingers steepled and gaunt face expressionless. If Castiel had to imagine Death's corporeal form, it would embody the likes of Giuliano Mietitore. Like Death, he had that quality about him—antique, somehow both ruthless and delicate. His pale skin was stretched over bone, cheeks hollow and black eyes cadaverous. The suit he wore hung from his thin body like a funeral shroud and his hair fell limp against his scalp. For all intents and purposes, Giuliano resembled a corpse, sat upright.

Thankfully, Death didn't come for Castiel today.

"Something like that," came another voice.

Hidden in the closet, Castiel peeked into the library between the slit provided by the half-closed door. The deep accent was telling; Scottish with a cynical lilt, cocksure enough to strip even the most confident of men to the bone. The physical description provided by the Don was right on target. The man was certainly more healthy in appearance than Giuliano; round-faced and boasting a heavier build than the skeletal creature that sat before him.

"You have an interesting situation on your hands," Giuliano commented, glassy eyes staring the other down.

"Glad you're amused."

"I am," Giuliano flashed him a slippery smile. "Please. Have a seat. Crowley, isn't it?"

"In some circles," Crowley quipped, settling into the cushions of the wood-trimmed occasional chair. The air about him was cautious, quiet energy pent up like a coil ready to snap.

"Would you like to try Chicago's finest pizza? Sometimes I think it's the only reason I haven't destroyed the place," Giuliano intoned, leaning back. "I much enjoy the pizza here."

Castiel rolled his eyes. Giuliano and his fucking food.

"No thanks. I just ate," Crowley responded curtly. "But I'll have a bit of scotch if you've got it."

"In fact, I do. I've prepared for your arrival," Giuliano leaned forward to snatch up an unmarked bottle, pouring just a bit into a glass for his guest.

"How generous," Crowley said dryly. He brought the glass to his lips and nearly choked after sipping. "Tastes more like piss than—"

"You have my most sincere of apologies. I didn't know that _swine_ could tell the difference between good and bad scotch."

Crowley paused for a long moment before discarding the whisky rather disgustedly on the desk. His movements were quick, fueled by obvious irritation. "Let's stop fucking about, eh mate, and get down business. I'm a very busy man."

Giuliano tsked, "So impatient. How utterly impolite."

"Look—"

"A busy man, you say?" Giuliano interrupted. "Mm, no. I find you quite unencumbered, in fact. You have nothing left to your name. No money. No estate. The rackets you were entrusted with—all taken from you," the bony man shook his head. "Not even a son to call your own any longer."

"Not a loss. I never liked that little bastard," Crowley scoffed, cocky amusement painting his truthful admission.

"That's not the point, Fergus," Giuliano stated coldly. "May I call you Fergus?"

"No, you may fucking not," Crowley snapped.

"You're in such a foul mood, Fergus. I don't understand why. You've yourself to blame. It was your idiocy that put you in this situation. You crossed the Don and he stripped you of everything. Did you think that you could cross him and get away with it?" Giuliano said smoothly, twisting a white ring around his slender finger.

"Well, I didn't think I'd get caught, now did I," Crowley shrugged, too easily.

"Ah, but you did. And here you are. Selling your soul for three inches of freedom and effectively wasting my time."

"Wasting your time? Give me a bit. I'll grow on ya."

"Mmyes. Just like a fungus."

Crowley shifted his posture, his body language suggesting an additional layer of annoyance. "So, what's the deal, then? What else do I need to give up to keep the hellhounds off my back?"

"Your life."

"Is that so? Seems a bit unfairly weighted," Crowley said coolly.

"In what pathetic little world did you honestly think you'd survive? That he'd let you continue living your worthless life? This meeting was simply a lure to get you to come out of hiding. A sort of... trap, if you will."

Crowley said nothing for several seconds. "So, that's it, then," his tone took on a more serious note, determined like the strength of steel.

"Think of it this way: you get a lovely trip to the burning depths of Hell. Or Purgatory, if you've behaved. For you... I'd plan on the warmer of the two." Giuliano soothed, sinfully deadpan given the situation. "This meeting is over."

Crowley growled.

"Give my regards to Death," Giuliano quipped with a meaningful smile.

"Do it yourself, you bloody bastard!"

Without warning, Crowley stood in a flurry of motion, reaching in toward his body for what Castiel could only assume was a hidden weapon. The meeting had hit a critical level quicker than expected.

With graceful lethality, Castiel slipped from the closet, measured movements quiet and quick. It took him only three steps, as planned, to clear the distance between the shadows and his victim. Before Crowley could grab his weapon, the Mafioso wrapped the piano-wire garrote around his neck, pulling down and at an angle. It was an effective maneuver that rendered Crowley uncontrolled and pitching back into the chair.

Castiel held on, gripping the garrote's wooden handles tightly, while Crowley gasped out and flailed. He tried to fruitlessly claw at the metallic noose around his neck, made noises that were a morbid extension of his desperation. With Crowley's head tipped so far back, the Mafioso could see that his eyes were beginning to bulge in their sockets, rimmed red with the pressure and exertion it took to breathe. Everything felt too comfortable, too familiar as the adrenaline ran thick in Castiel's veins, as the muscles in his arms became taut and focused in the chaotic act of killing. If anything in his life was constant, it would be this; snuffing out the lives of the damned. Nothing else made him feel so… complete. Nothing else could make him _feel_ at all. Not anymore.

Crowley tried to thrash with the hope of escaping, but Castiel pulled down harder and pressed his own knee against the back of the chair for leverage. The extra force made Crowley gurgle wetly while blood began to ooze where the wire had cut skin. It was a miraculous thing to witness; a man's struggle for survival. Castiel had nearly forgotten what it was like to fight for something, to even care. It was a thought quickly dismissed when Crowley began to slip away, when his body simply… gave up. Crowley convulsed and contorted with the throes of death and then stopped twitching altogether. The silence in the room had been Crowley's parting gift, a momentary peace disturbed by the sudden clapping of hands.

"What a stunning display of brutality," Giuliano said with amusement. "Don Diavolo would be proud."

Castiel rolled his eyes as he loosened his grip on the piano wire, coiling it neatly before placing it on the desk nearby. Another day, another job completed—every one of them the same as the last. Castiel took to the menial chores with little interest, ignoring Giuliano while he worked, pausing only briefly to spare a blessing over the body. The Latin was familiar on his tongue, soothing, every single word recited with sincerity. It was a beautiful litany that filled this place and brought with it an ounce of hope; something that was of no use to the dead.

"Tua mens et animae omnium fidelium defunctorum per misericordiam Dei requiescant in pace."

_Your mind and the soul of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God—rest in peace._

"How touching," Giuliano said sarcastically.

Castiel offered him a glare before he returned his attention to the corpse, emptying out pockets with nimble fingers that moved quickly, effortlessly, like the well-oiled parts of a machine. Crowley meant to grab for something and Castiel searched for it with the careful sweep of blue eyes. His attention fled to the grip of a gun wedged between the corpse and the inside of the occasional chair, earning a curious head tilt and inquisitive expression. With certainty, Castiel grabbed it and brought it closer for inspection.

The Colt looked old and worn with its long barrel smooth. Both its silver finish and grip were engraved, a Latin phrase and pentagram respectively. The Latin words came to him easily, reading, '_I will fear no evil'. _A very peculiar gun, he concluded, one that wouldn't stand a chance against modern technology. Idly, Castiel wondered what possible use Crowley had for it. Without another thought, Castiel slipped it into the waistband of his pants and stepped back to ponder the plausibility of his next task.

_Bring back his bones._

The instructions had been vague, just as he had come to expect from the Don. Castiel exhaled sharply and shot his gaze over the body again, then around the room. The shelves of the library were filled to the brim with literature, family heirlooms… and a hand scythe. The Mafioso turned his head slowly to look at Giuliano, to level him with the arch of a brow that spoke volumes.

A smile slithered onto Giuliano's face and he shrugged, "It's an antique."

And perfect for what Castiel was set out to do.

"Don't touch that," Giuliano said preemptively.

Intending to do just the opposite, Castiel stepped forward to take it by the handle. It was light in his hands and agile, swift as it cut through air during a practice swing. Castiel ignored Giuliano as he huffed and pined for it, muttered on about its rarity, about its delicacy. The other man's warnings became background noise; meaningless and forgotten. The Mafioso was quick to grab the corpse's forearm and lay it flat on the desk, raising his scythe-wielding arm high and ready. Giuliano shouted something while Castiel swung and cleanly cut off the hand—something that would serve as the 'bones' he needed. It was simple to disregard Giuliano as he chattered angrily, rising up from his chair to shake an accusatory finger. Castiel quickly turned on him and brought the Colt to bear. The air was filled with a sense of inevitability as Castiel cocked the hammer.

"Your services are no longer required."

The shot rang out, deafening and explosive, and the gun's powerful kick-back nearly knocked Castiel from his feet. Giuliano fell back and down, folded in his chair like a ragdoll thrown away. His aim had been perfect, as certain as the rising sun. Yet that wasn't the source of his surprise. The fact that the gun had even worked…

Castiel looked at the Colt curiously before tucking it away and gathering everything he needed to bring back with him. Beside the desk, Castiel found a black case that had belonged to the now-dead Giuliano and used it to pack away his tools and the severed hand. With the case in one hand, the Mafioso stepped away from the bloody scene. The loose ends of family business had been tied off, leaving nothing behind save a mess for the coppers to sweep under the rug.

**The Day He Died**

"_Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; _

_the most massive characters are seared with scars."_

—_Khalil Gibran_

_**Summit, Illinois, 1908 – Twenty-Four Years Ago**_

The soles of his shoes pounded against the dirt road, drumming out the despair of a boy far too young to have witnessed what he had just seen. His anguish blinded him to anything else. Every other noise and sensation had faded in comparison to the profound devastation that he felt.

Young Castiel burst through the streets of the small town with reckless abandon, running in a full sprint toward the one place he felt safe. The journey was a quick one, broken only by his clumsiness because he couldn't see, tears thick and hot on his face. Little did he know that today was one of the most pivotal events of his life. Castiel didn't know that today he'd lose the only thread tethering him to this world.

His chest heaved as he thundered through the back door of the grand house, the pulse of his heart high in his throat. Nothing mattered to Castiel as he wound his way through the halls, past familiar rooms; not the presence of those he had come to call family nor the sound of his name being shouted. Everything was a blur. Undefined sights and sounds that played second best to the tragedy in the forefront of his mind.

Without warning, Castiel crashed through the closed door of the office. The young boy could hear Michael, the favored son of the Sant'Angelo family, gasp out in surprise. Michael may have said something, may have yelled at him, but Castiel didn't have the mind to notice. Not when he needed to be saved from the horror of that… scene. Charles Sant'Angelo had always been a pillar of strength for Castiel, the nearest thing to a parent he had left.

"Godfather…" Castiel ran into his arms and sobbed, burying his face into Charles' chest. "He's dead," the young boy choked on the words. They felt harsh and foreign in his throat, unbelievable and horrible. "He's—he's dead."

"Castiel, you can't just barge in—"

"It's fine," Charles said soothingly. He dipped a finger beneath the boy's chin to raise blue eyes to his own. "Who's dead?"

Before Castiel could manage to form words out of his slackened mouth, another family member burst into the room. The young boy buried his face again, but could tell by voice that it was Zachariah.

"Father. It's Jimmy. He's…"

"Zachariah. What happened? What happened to Jimmy?"

Castiel couldn't see Zachariah, didn't want to see him. He wanted to drown out the world, hide and never come out. The boy could barely listen to Zachariah say that Jimmy was…

"He got in the way, Godfather. There was an altercation. Gunfire. Jimmy got in the way."

"How the fuck do you hit a kid?" Charles snapped, unhooking Castiel's arms from around him. The warmth of Charles' closeness dissipated as he rose from his chair, leaving the young boy behind.

Castiel stood there dumbfounded and lowered his head into his hands. He could smell Jimmy's blood on his skin, could feel it on his face. It was wet and cool as it clung to him, all over his arms, his clothing… everywhere. While Castiel sobbed, the back of his eyelids relived the scene over and over again. The shock on Jimmy's face, the choking, the gurgling, the way his body shook as he began to... Castiel broke down and fell to his knees.

"It wasn't me. I swear it," Zachariah's voice fled down the hall and Charles' with it. They talked amongst each other, some words shouted in anger, before their voices faded out completely.

"Eva! Take care of Castiel!" was the only other thing he heard from Charles that day.

Silence fell over the room like a curtain after the final act of a play. Castiel was left on the floor alone with nothing but his tears to comfort him. He felt like he was dying, his heart torn from his chest. Without Jimmy, he was lost.

Empty.

**The Family**

"_Then said the father: 'Thus, my sons, as long as you remain united, _

_you are a match for anything, but differ and separate, and you are undone'."_

—_Aesop_

_**Aurora, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

The train ride from Chicago to Aurora had been uneventful at best. Quiet and unimposing, Castiel kept to himself as thoughts of the past rose up to rebel against him. He thought of Jimmy and the fateful day that he lost his brother, his best friend, his confidant. They had been thick as thieves together, inseparable, and had faced trials beyond what two young boys could possibly bear. The loss of their parents had struck them to the core and the hopelessness of living at the orphanage dampened what could have been a happy childhood. It was them against the world, spending days getting into mischief and nights wishing they had a family again.

Jimmy…

With a sigh, Castiel lifted his fingers to the collar of his dress shirt and fumbled with the chain around his neck. It was warm against his skin, the gold cross dangling from it in silent reminder. It had belonged to Jimmy and to their father before him. He looked at the cross for a second before pressing his lips to the metal, tucking it away inside his clothing where it belonged—safe and hidden. Just like everything else these days. Emotions that he once wore on his sleeves were now buried away behind the steel mask of a Mafioso. As it was meant to be, supposed to be. Anything else would be unacceptable.

Castiel blew a breath past his lips as the train hissed to a halt, thankful for the break in self-contemplation. He began to gather his belongings just as the other passengers did; one small suitcase holding clothes and normal necessities while the other boasted a severed hand as its keepsake. Quietly, Castiel shuffled off the train, always mindful of his surroundings. In this day and age, one simply couldn't be too careful.

It had begun to rain before he set foot off the train. Tiny droplets pelted his face with cold reality, crisp and chilly air replacing the warmth he had felt in the train's cabin. The anguish of his memories were washed away with the downpour, offering him no choice but to push it all to a place inside him that no one could reach—a place so deep that it was almost too easy to forget.

Castiel navigated the crowd with ease as several passengers huddled in tight places to escape the rain. Others blatantly stood on the curb in an effort to flag down a taxi, ignoring the weather. Someone bumped into him then on their way by, but Castiel didn't care. He found his own taxi among the hustle and bustle, and piled his things inside. With a few words to the driver, the car started off down the street with the roar of the engine.

The scenery of the City of Lights whipped by the taxi's window in splashes of color, a painting of buildings and people smeared together by the carelessness of an artist's brush. Aurora seemed vast against the misted backdrop of rain and wind. It lived and breathed with the rich and the poor yet still felt so very empty. Castiel turned away from it all and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling while the taxi driver maneuvered the car in the sea of duplicates. Finally, he was home.

_Home._

To him, the word was hollow in meaning, nothing more than a term that tried to cover up a sense of emptiness. Yes, that was exactly what he embodied; an emptiness that knew neither solace nor ease, that cut like a knife even on the good days.

The driver turned down the familiar street and came to a halt outside a small ristorante. It was quaint and clean, inviting with its massive front window and warm lighting. Its name, C_ielo,_ stretched across the glass proudly while the character etched in the wood boasted many years of operation. Inside, Castiel could see his family, the Sant'Angelos, gathered around one of the long tables, chatting and waiting for the evening meal. Every Sunday it was like this; the family's ristorante closed around dinner time and they all came together like a puzzle even in the chaos of their time.

_A man is nothing without family…_

Charles' words sat comfortably on his shoulders and he wore it with a sense of pride and honor. Castiel was nothing without his family. And without him, a piece to their puzzle went missing—a weak spot sore and easily abused.

Rachel was the first to take notice, peering out the window at his taxi. Her face brightened immediately with recognition and she waved frantically, hoping to beckon him inside. Castiel didn't smile, barely reacted beyond his customary stoicism. He may have even internally cringed knowing how animated Rachel could be when he came home from having been away.

With driver paid and suitcases in hand, Castiel exited the car and was assaulted again with the chill of the rain. He made quick work of crossing the sidewalk, nearly sighing when Rachel flung open the door. Her energy was boundless and sometimes suffocating, like now, hardly letting him breathe before he could even step into the small ristorante.

"Cas!" she squealed, snapping up the suitcases from his hands. Rachel threw them haphazardly aside before whirling on her heels to hug him. Her grip was tight and her blonde hair tickled his jaw line. Castiel felt uncomfortable with the close proximity of another person, family or not, and the hug went on a little too long for his liking. Rachel extended him to arm's length and her light blue eyes reflected the intensity of her excitement, the corners of them crinkled. It was his favorite thing about her, her smile; all perfect teeth and the way it lit up the entirety of her gentle face. Castiel didn't return it, but squeezed her shoulder gently in passing.

Along with her incessant touching came the onslaught of other sensations, of smells and sounds that brought with them the ideal of a perfect family. The mouth-watering scent of pasta and bread greeted him and his stomach growled viciously in response. It was a painful pang of hunger that was easily soothed by the clear-cut sound of Fred Astaire's _Night & Day_. The song was coming from the record player, a "Consolette" Orthophonic Victrola, beautiful with its resplendent, mahogany finish. He knew the machine's insides and outsides, having purchased it himself for the family's ristorante.

"I'm so glad you're home," Rachel said, but it was drowned out by the excitement of the others. The chaos of greetings came entirely too fast and from all directions.

"Cassie's back!" He heard Balthazar say.

"Heyas, Angel," Gabriel eased, favoring Castiel's nickname, one he had received due to his penchant for blessing the dead.

Michael approached him next while Rachel removed Castiel's damp pea coat, black borsalino hat and double-breasted suit jacket. Rachel knew from past experience to be careful with his belongings. He wore his favorite suit, fashionable to the times; black with white pin-stripes, the material both comfortable and practical. Rachel smiled at him and patted his shoulder on the way past, leaving Castiel to Michael's greetings.

"Welcome home," Michael said warmly, grabbing both sides of Castiel's face to kiss each cheek. His eyes were a light green, hair dark and smooth, and features chiseled. Somehow, in the face of everything, his older brother Michael always had a smile on his lips.

Castiel nodded simply, "Michael."

"Come. Have a seat. Anna has prepared a special meal for the family tonight," Michael ushered him forward with a soft touch on the upper arm, pointing to indicate an empty seat.

Castiel moved to the chair as told, loosening the blue tie and unfastening the top button of his white dress shirt. Among family, he could be comfortable instead of assuming his rigid code of personal appearance. He found himself still fussing as he sat down, smoothing his hair and adjusting the six-buttoned vest that he preferred to keep on. Castiel would feel naked without his cufflinks, his watch and the ring on his hand and didn't remove those either. The other brothers often mentioned how stiff he was, how perfect he always looked and teased him about it. But he'd rather be professionally dressed and represent the family proudly than look like a slob.

His eyes settled on the others in the room, to the ones who never said much of anything to him. Zachariah glowered quietly while Virgil said nothing at all, couldn't speak even if he wanted to. His tongue had been cut out long ago as some sort of punishment by another family. Castiel had never heard the entire story and wasn't sure if he cared enough to even ask.

"The Don won't be joining us tonight. He had business elsewhere," came Michael's curt response to Castiel's searching eyes. The absence of the Don explained why Michael was in such high spirits. The two brothers always fought even when they were children, always vying for father's affections. The rivalry worsened after—

"Castiel! Oh, I'm so glad you're safe," the voice was a happy one, pleasant and familiar. It belonged to his bright-eyed sister, Anna. As soon as he had been adopted into the family, Anna had been there, taking care of him and practically raising him with mother. Castiel could feel the honesty of her cheerfulness and turned to look at her. In that second, when his eyes saw her face, his muted indifference shifted to slow-boiling anger.

Anna smiled at him while she moved toward the table to chatter on about dinner. But he didn't hear her. As she spoke, the bruises on her cheekbone shifted in a myriad of color; black and blue with shades of yellow and pink mixed in between. Castiel stared at her hard, saw her shrink under the heat of his gaze. Once she had finished her spiel about the meal, Anna tried to move past him hastily. He was quicker.

Castiel caught her by the wrist and pulled her close to brush a thumb against the foreign color on her skin. Anna leaned into his touch, expression somber.

"It was my fault, Cas. I promise," she whispered. "Please—please don't hurt him."

"Anna," he warned. "This isn't the first time this has happened. He's done this to you before."

"I know. I know," Anna responded gently. "It's all right. Just—just don't get involved."

Castiel glowered at her back as she retreated, wrapping his white-knuckled fist around a napkin just to keep his idle hands busy. He heard Gabriel snap his fingers at him, to draw his attention away from hateful thoughts. Slowly, Castiel turned to regard him, the expression on his face obvious. He gripped the napkin, crumpled it in his hands. Fucking Alastair.

"Cas, we're gonna fix him. Tonight—"

Michael interrupted, "No talk of business at the table."

Gabriel flashed him a dirty look and rolled his eyes, "We'll talk about it after dinner."

As if on cue, Rachel and Anna came out with heaping piles of food, setting down plates and making sure everything was served before seating themselves. With the lick of his lips, Gabriel reached across to pick at the dessert. It earned him a slap on the hand and a glare from Anna.

Michael smiled and touched Castiel's hand lightly, "Will you lead the family in prayer?"

Castiel nodded and folded his hands, didn't care if anyone else did the same. In reverence to the God he believed in, Castiel closed his eyes and recited the same prayer he had for years, at every family dinner he attended. "O Dio, che ci concedi ogni giorno il pane, il vino, e l'olio saziandoci nella tua benevolenza. Benedici questo nostro stare a mensa e donaci la gratitudine verso di te e verso tutta la creazione. Amen."

_O God, every day You give us bread, wine and oil, satisfying us with Your generosity. Bless our being together at this table and give us gratitude toward You and toward all of creation. Amen._

Before the rest could say _amen_, Michael chimed in with his own addition, "Momma, poppa. We wish you were still here with us. Momma, we miss your guidance, your gentleness. Poppa, your leadership—"

Castiel sighed inwardly and waited for it.

"—if you hadn't been taken from us so soon, and hadn't been betrayed by your own fam—"

"Michael," Castiel warned, placing a gentle hand on his brother's arm.

Michael sighed, bowed his head lower and whispered, "Amen."

An uncomfortable chorus of _amen_ completed the dinner tradition, followed by the raising of wine glasses for the toast. At the same time, they blessed the family with happiness and prosperity for a century.

"Famiglia! Cent'anni!"

Castiel remained quiet throughout dinner. Anna had prepared his favorite meal; mother's capelli d'angelo with truffle sauce, paired perfectly with the casa e. di Mirafiore Barolo dated 1918. The wine was rust-red, had hints of rose in its aroma and tasted heavenly. Castiel only spoke when asked a question directly, listening mostly to the other family members tell stories of their week. Nothing had changed. Balthazar went on about a new broad he had been with (or twelve, Castiel didn't care to keep up) and Gabriel mentioned the trouble he had caused recently. It was all the same.

Dinner had concluded quickly enough. Bellies were full with both food and wine, some of the brothers more inebriated than others. As custom in their family, the men went outside once the meal was done to smoke or get a breath of fresh air. The brothers had already left the small ristorante and Castiel could see them outside the large glass window. Before he even joined them, Castiel donned his suit jacket, pea coat and black borsalino hat and took great care to smooth out any wrinkles. Behind him, Castiel felt a presence and then a touch, sending a shiver down his spine and a frown up to his face.

"Cas? Are you all right? You seemed quiet at dinner," Rachel asked lightly.

"I'm fine," Castiel murmured, shrugging her fingers from him. He wasn't at all, but he didn't need to confide in Rachel. She didn't need to know. Castiel left her behind, quiet and confused, and stepped out.

Beyond the warmth of the ristorante, groups had already been formed outside; Zachariah, Virgil and Michael off on their own while Gabriel and Balthazar snuck off into the shadows. Castiel was beckoned immediately by Gabriel as he stepped out into the street.

"Cas," Gabriel nodded as Castiel approached and offered him a cigarette.

Castiel shook his head in refusal. Anna would say that Castiel only smoked when he was stressed. He doubted the truth in that.

"Cassie, are we actually going to do this?" Balthazar asked, the tip of his own cigarette flaring to life as he sucked in.

"Alastair needs to be taught a lesson for hurting Anna," Gabriel interjected quickly. "This is the last fucking time."

Castiel said nothing. His silence was louder than words.

Balthazar nodded, exhaled a phantom of smoke before throwing the cigarette to the ground and snuffing it out.

"We ready, then, boys?" Gabriel grinned. He didn't even wait for an answer. "Cas, let's take your car."

Gabriel started off in the direction where Castiel always parked his car. After exchanging knowing glances, Castiel and Balthazar followed and climbed into the vehicle. It was a black, Ford Model A with a Fordor Sedan chassis, built in 1927. The car had always treated Castiel well and he took care of it as it had taken care of him. They had spent long nights on the road together, the gentle purr of her engine serving as his only company. In a way, those nights of quiet contemplation had saved him many times. Saved him from himself.

As Gabriel haphazardly threw himself into the back and roughly closed the door, Castiel gave him a quiet glare.

"I didn't hurt your precious car. God," Gabriel snapped, more than likely a little bit drunk.

Castiel didn't say anything else. With little manipulation, the car hummed to life and started down the street toward the house that Anna and Alastair shared. His thoughts wandered to the past, focusing on when Anna had announced her engagement. Castiel never liked Alastair and had always thought him as sleazy, dishonorable, and not good enough for his dear sister. The marriage was recent, as were the beatings, and Castiel had only seen his sister bruised one other time. Anna had promised it was her fault and Castiel had foolishly believed her. He clenched the wheel tightly, the knuckles of his slender-fingered hands growing pale with the effort. No one else said a word.

The black car stopped in front of the house, engine quietly growling as all three passengers looked out.

"Balthazar, I'm going to need your help bringing him out," Gabriel said, opening his car door and stepping out.

Balthazar sighed and looked at Castiel, "Do we—"

"Do as he says," Castiel replied coldly, not even bothering to look at him.

After a moment of silence, Balthazar reluctantly obeyed, climbing out of the car and closing the door behind him. Castiel was left alone with nothing but the gentle, hushed roar of the engine. A moment or two of contemplation and Castiel admitted that he had no qualms about Alastair's inevitable beat down. An eye for an eye, a means of returning torture to the tormenter.

With the flick of his wrist, the car went quiet and Castiel stepped out, shutting the door behind him. While his brothers were gathering up Alastair, the Mafioso opened the door to the backseat and began to prepare himself. Castiel removed his black pea coat and suit jacket, folding each in a neat pile and resting the hat on top. Precise finger-flicks unfastened the cufflinks and he placed those in the available pockets of his jacket to prevent them from being lost in the scuffle. Even in chaos, everything was perfectly planned and orderly, and that was how he always wanted it. Castiel rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and leaned over the seat to snag the wooden baseball bat he kept around—for special occasions.

By the time Castiel moved away from the car, his brothers were fumbling out of the doorway with Alastair, throwing him onto the street. Alastair already had a few bruises and so did the brothers, the scuffle to get him out of the house obviously a difficult one. Both Gabriel and Balthazar began kicking him while he was down and Castiel calmly approached with one hand in his pants pocket. The other held the bat, resting the bulk of the weapon on his shoulder in a way that was nonchalant.

Alastair grunted and shielded his face with his hands. Without pause, Gabriel and Balthazar wailed on him continuously, kicking and punching. Castiel gripped Balthazar's upper arm and pulled him out of the way, allowing himself enough room to join in on the fray. He led with a high-powered swing; the bat beginning low and circling back and up, descending down immediately on Alastair's back. Alastair cried out and collapsed flat on the street, no longer putting up any sort of fight. The sudden strike from Castiel surprised Gabriel, causing him to jump back and away. He didn't join in again after that.

Castiel imagined Anna beneath Alastair, cringing and crying as he beat her for some small, insignificant sin—or because he was angry, or hungry, or… The Mafioso struck Alastair over and over again, each swing more vicious and anger-driven than the last. And each time, Alastair groaned out less and less, muffled cries turning into whimpers and then nothing. Before he could exert another swing, Gabriel snatched his arm and held it firm, pulling Castiel out of his blind rage.

"Cas! Cas! Stop it. We don't want to make Anna a widow, right?" Gabriel shook his arm a little. "Right? Fuck, Angel. Remind me to never make you angry."

Castiel shot a glare at Gabriel, calming just a little after the truth in his words settled in. He threw the bat down next to Alastair and stepped closer, picking him up roughly by the throat.

"Cas," Balthazar warned behind him.

Castiel ignored them both, leaning in to sneer at Alastair's bewildered face. "If you ever touch her again, I will fucking kill you. Am I perfectly clear?"

Alastair nodded weakly, head bobbing as if it wasn't attached to the rest of his body. Castiel let go, and like a ragdoll, Alastair fell to the street in a broken pile.

Castiel turned on him and began to walk toward the car. He could hear his brothers scramble to catch up to him. Gabriel came along side to pull him in close, hand on his shoulder and gripping tight. "Still got that stick wedged firmly up your ass, huh?" Gabriel mused, grinning.

"Well, welcome home, Cassie!" Balthazar added in dryly to relieve the tension.

Castiel smirked and didn't retreat from the brotherly affection or chiding.

This was how it was. Saving each other, punishing people. The family business.

**Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust**

"_A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own."_

—_Thomas Mann_

_**Summit, Illinois, 1930 – Two Years Ago**_

Castiel stared at the back of Lucifer's head. The eldest brother stood by the large window with his back toward the family, hands clasped behind him. The way he seemed to lord over everyone else made Castiel feel uneasy. Here in the family room of their home, Castiel could feel the thick tension in the air, could hear both Anna and Rachel crying behind him. It was just a few days ago that the family had buried their father, Charles Sant'Angelo, after his untimely death. It had left the family dispirited and broken, with the successors fighting over who would pick up the pieces. Fucking family politics.

Castiel leaned back in his chair, hands neatly folded in his lap while he waited for Lucifer to speak. He shot a glance around the room, registering the solemn faces of his brothers and sisters, some more devastated than others. Both Zachariah and Virgil appeared unaffected while Michael, Gabriel and his sisters were near catatonic, taking the death particularly harsh. Balthazar looked to him for guidance as he always had, seeming more curious with Castiel's response to the situation than anything else. Castiel offered nothing in terms of his reaction.

How did he feel then?

Castiel exhaled a heavy breath. Father's death had become just another loss on the long list of those who had died or had left him during his lifetime. The relationship Castiel had with Charles had been a distant one at best. Father had been the figurehead of the family and had barely spoken to Castiel in any capacity other than business. Yes, that was exactly how the relationship had been; a business transaction. Like everything else. Castiel wasn't happy about Charles' death nor was he devastated. Instead, he felt absolutely nothing.

"The loss of our father is a great one," Lucifer began, still facing the window, "and it will be impossible to replace his love, guidance and wisdom." He slowly turned to regard the family. "But together, we'll survive this. Together, we'll be strong and carry each other in our time of weakness," Lucifer paused long enough to let his words sink in. "With the passing of our beloved father, there is a significant void that must be filled. In both leadership—"

Castiel sighed.

"—and at the head of the family. That is why I—"

"The fuck you are," Michael interjected immediately, stepping forward in challenge.

"Michael. Let me finish—" Lucifer returned with calm composure.

"I don't need to, Lucifer. I knew as soon as you called this meeting that you'd try and take father's position," Michael pointed at him in defiance. "No. I won't allow it. I am supposed to take father's place. I am the one who was promised—"

"You were the one? Father never mentioned this to me—" Lucifer interrupted.

"You were not involved in all aspects of the family business, Lucifer."

"Do you have proof that you were chosen to assume the role at the head of the family?"

Michael glared at him, "How the fuck am I supposed to have proof—"

"Then how are we, the family, supposed to believe you?" Lucifer reasoned, never once losing his cool.

Michael slammed his fist down onto one of the side tables. Several family members jumped in surprise. "How are we, the family, supposed to follow you as Don? How can you expect us to let you lead this family after you had father killed!"

"Michael," Castiel interjected.

"No, Cas. You know it's true. You know that Lucifer has been planning this for who knows how long!" Michael turned to address the rest of them. "We all know that he has the connections and capabilities to have had father killed," Michael breathed haggardly. "He died in front of the fucking grocer. Our father.. in front of the grocer—really? Someone had to have known he'd be there at that precise moment." He turned back to Gabriel, "Gabe, you were there when father died, when he was shot down. You know it was planned."

Gabriel said nothing.

"Perhaps it was Castiel who orchestrated it all," Lucifer offered.

"What?" was the common response from the family. Castiel glared at Lucifer.

"Well, if we're going to toss around ridiculous notions…" Lucifer chuckled.

"How can you joke at a time like this?" Michael snapped back. He looked at Castiel, "Cas, back me up here."

Castiel raised his hands in surrender, "I'm not getting involved in this."

Lucifer looked at Michael, "Are you… quite finished?"

Michael looked to the others, his expression pleading, "Gabriel, Balthazar… Zachariah. Are you really going to let this happen?"

"There's nothing we can do, Michael. Lucifer has the connections and ability to lead our family to greatness," Zachariah answered back plainly.

"Which brings us to our next point of business," Lucifer continued, as if the whole argument never took place. "As the new Don—" he flashed Michael a smile, "I propose that we leave Summit and set our sights elsewhere. There are more opportunities for success in larger cities."

The family erupted into their own little conversations, some nervous and more angry than others. Michael threw his hands up, "This is fucking ridiculous."

"You want us to move our family?" Anna asked openly which earned her several dirty looks from the men. Women didn't have a say in family matters.

"We'll be moving to Aurora," Lucifer said firmly. The family quieted down. "I have already found the perfect home for us. The move will occur in the next few weeks. If we have nothing else to discuss—"

Castiel tuned the rest of the conversation out. As expected, Balthazar immediately fled to his side once the meeting had ended and started talking nervously in his ear.

"Cassie, what are we going to do? Are we really going to let—"

"What choice do we have, Balthazar?" Castiel hissed with annoyance. "We're soldiers. We do as we're told. Lucifer is the Don now and you need to show him some respect," Castiel leaned in, lowering his tone to a whisper. "Michael isn't strong enough to lead us and you know that. Father didn't always know what was best."

"But—"

The Mafioso raised a dismissive hand to quiet him. Castiel didn't care to be involved in the drama and the senseless bickering.

He just wanted to be left alone.

**The Job**

"_Fear not for the future, weep not for the past."_

—_Percy Bysshe Shelley_

**Aurora, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**

Castiel spent the morning keeping his brothers, Gabriel and Balthazar, company while they tied up odds and ends for the family. He appreciated the simplicity of it all, the humor shared between them and the absence of responsibility. For a few hours, Castiel didn't have to make a decision and he felt a certain freedom in it. For once, Castiel didn't have to decide on how and when to end someone's life. He didn't have to run errands for the family. He didn't need to do anything but simply exist. Unfortunately, his freedom was short-lived. It wasn't long after the three brothers had returned home that Lucifer had asked to speak to Castiel in the library.

Reminiscent of two years ago, the Mafioso stared at the back of Lucifer's head while the Don looked out the window. Castiel didn't intend to stay long and stood behind the chair that faced the large, ornate desk. As usual, Lucifer hadn't acknowledged Castiel when he entered the room, his idle hand busy drawing a pitch fork on the frosted-glass window. The Don could spend a long time keeping the silence like this. It was agonizing. Castiel just wanted to get what he guessed would be another assignment and leave. He sighed and then swept his gaze throughout the room, focusing briefly on a familiar suitcase. It was the one that had belonged to Giuliano. Since the Don had never mentioned that job again, Castiel would have to assume that he had performed to Lucifer's expectations.

"I have another chore for you, Castiel," Lucifer began, never turning around to face him. "Similar to the situation with Crowley and Giuliano, I need you to… exterminate a little problem."

Castiel said nothing.

"I need you to kill a man named Dean Winchester."

A bullet to the chest would have had the same effect. Castiel felt a sudden burst of adrenaline pump into his system, leaving his head light with… far too many emotions to sort through. Castiel was not prepared for the tidal wave that the name brought. A name he had tried so hard to forget ever existed. It fell so loosely and carelessly from his brother's mouth, as if meant nothing. Yet for Castiel, the name carried such a weight, so barbed and multi-faceted with a myriad of thoughts and regrets. And everything, all of it, hit Castiel with such force that he had to grab onto the chair to prevent himself from falling over.

"Why—" Castiel blurted, the tone of his voice uncharacteristically heavy, as if he actually cared. He never cared. Lucifer, the bastard that he was, was far too receptive not to notice this change in him. And that didn't take into account the fact that Castiel never asked questions.

As prompted, Lucifer slowly and deliberately turned his head to look over his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed and jaw stern. Castiel tried to muster some sort of composure, but his face felt hot, hands tight and white-knuckled on the chair. The usually-stoic Mafioso felt nauseous, could feel his brow bead with sweat.

"He's failed to honor his contractual obligations to the family."

Castiel could feel his eyes widen.

"Do you—" Lucifer paused, "Do you know this man?"

"No," Castiel said quickly, lying.

Lucifer looked at him for a long time. Castiel could feel his face burn under the scrutiny and cursed himself for never having learned how to lie effectively. "Is this going to be a problem, Castiel?"

The depth of his voice cracked. "No—" The words crawled out of his mouth like a dying man in the desert. Castiel cleared his throat in an attempt to recover some sort of dignity, "No, of course not."

Lucifer smiled, "Good."

Seemingly satisfied, the Don turned away to resume his stare out the window. "His last known location was in Chicago where you found Crowley. It seems as if all of the rats go there to hide."

Castiel didn't let go of the chair, fearing that he'd fall if he did. He desperately fought down the memories of all those years ago. The pieces that that son of a bitch had left behind… Castiel felt angry, enraged that even the slightest mention of that name threw him into such an emotional fit. That he actually had to _struggle_ to keep himself from unraveling.

"You may go."

Castiel tried to snap out of it and gather his composure. His flight from the room was chaotic and lacked his usual grace, his mind dizzy with the words that turned over and over in his head.

_Kill Dean Winchester._

**Hope**

"_It takes a day to fall in love with someone, but it takes a lifetime to forget."_

—_Unknown_

_**Summit, Illinois, 1908 **_**– Twenty-Four Years Ago**

Tears rolled down Castiel's cheeks, bitter and quick, while he rubbed his scuffed knee. The first day at a new school had been ruined with incessant bullying and shame. Young Castiel, merely seven years old, had told his teacher that he fell, but that hadn't been the truth. Older kids took it upon themselves to tease and push him, causing Castiel to fall and skin his knee. The pain of it trembled up his leg and it was bleeding, but Castiel could barely afford to pay any mind to it. Not now. Not when someone else was staring at him. Another boy watched him from a distance while Castiel sat alone during the school day's free time. He didn't like the attention and kept his eyes on the ground, trying to make himself appear as small and as uninteresting as possible.

The few sneak peeks Castiel had been able to manage told him that the other boy wasn't much older than he was. He had light brown hair, intense green eyes and a smile that almost made the fear go away. Castiel tried to make himself appear less threatening by hunching his shoulders. All he wanted to do was disappear, to turn invisible. But this boy wouldn't let him. Instead, he closed the space between them slowly, studying Castiel as if he were some oddity in a toyshop. Castiel turned away after catching a quick glance and dropped his eyes to stare at the blood that clung to broken skin. Young Castiel couldn't take another ounce of bullying, not today. He already felt like an outcast and the consequences of being the new kid at school.

"Hi," the green-eyed boy said, now standing just behind him. "I'm Dean."

The voice sounded pleasant, nice like gentle rain on rooftops. But Castiel didn't dare respond and further caved in on himself. He only wanted to be left alone, to curl up and never exist again.

Dean wouldn't let up, came closer and sat next to Castiel. Too close. Peripherally, Castiel could see Dean pick up a blade of grass and begin to peel it. He could feel his every movement, the rippling closeness each time Dean pulled apart a thread of the grass and threw it. Their backs were practically touching and it made Castiel uncomfortable. The only choice Castiel had was to close his eyes and brace himself for Dean's cruelty—something that never came. Instead, Dean turned toward him. Castiel could feel the whisper of breath on the back of his neck.

"Do you talk?" Dean asked. He only waited a couple of seconds before shooting out another question, "What's your name?"

Castiel didn't answer him. Anxiety tightened his chest.

Dean went silent. Castiel could feel those soul-searching eyes on him again, piercing and inquisitive. The silence didn't last long. "Did it hurt when you fell..?" Dean asked simply enough, pointing at the scuffed knee.

Castiel said nothing and let another tear fall from his cheek.

"When you fell from Heaven. Did it hurt?" Castiel could hear the grin in Dean's voice. "Isn't that where you got that?"

Castiel turned a frown toward Dean, "I didn't fall from Heaven."

"Well. You could have fooled me. Are you sure you're not an angel? Because you look like one!" Dean grinned wide, "Also, I got you to talk. So there."

Castiel smiled just a little bit.

"So, what's your name?"

Castiel hesitated a moment, feeling uneasy talking to Dean let alone telling him his name.

"I'm not going to hurt you like those other boys did," he said, as if noticing Castiel's uncertainty.

Castiel shied away and mumbled, "I don't know that."

"I promise I won't be mean."

Castiel looked at Dean for a long time, gauging the truthfulness of his face. "Castiel," he said timidly.

"Huh," Dean said and thought for a moment. "I'll call you Cas instead, okay?"

Castiel didn't get a chance to agree or disagree before Dean began to talk again. "Let's be friends," he said, those green eyes looking at the scuffed knee. "I'll protect you too."

Castiel watched as Dean pulled out a piece of cloth from his pocket and began to wipe away the blood. Dean was gentle and thorough, nothing like the other boys had been. Castiel could feel himself relax under his touch and felt the anxiety melt away. When Castiel winced a little or whimpered at the pain, Dean lightened the pressure of his tending and whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," in a way that made Castiel believe him. Castiel was mesmerized by the way his hands worked, clearing away the dirt and small debris. For a second, Castiel wondered where Dean had learned all of this; precision with all the tenderness in the world. Maybe Dean was used to it; mending broken skin and calming shattered nerves. Maybe Dean often cared for someone else just like he was doing now.

Dean leaned down to kiss the knee, straightened and said, "There. All better," as if he believed it. At that moment, Castiel believed it too and smiled, genuine and deep. The change in Castiel's demeanor prompted Dean to grin in return, a playful excitement dancing in his green eyes.

"Let's play a game," Castiel couldn't deny the happiness on Dean's face. "Hide and go seek! Have you played that before?"

Castiel nodded his head, "Yes. I've played it with my brother."

"You have a brother? So do—"

"No," Castiel corrected, "He died. I don't have a brother anymore."

The cheer on Dean's face died immediately and those eyes continued to stare at him. Castiel didn't even give him the chance to respond. It felt odd to confide in someone he didn't know, but he felt that Dean was different somehow.

"I don't have parents either. They died too," Castiel lowered his head to hide his face, "I—I don't have anyone." Tears streamed down his cheeks and his sniffles broke the even line of his shoulders.

Silence stretched between them. No warning led to Dean's tight hug, so caring and tender that it made Castiel cry harder.

"You have me."

Those words meant everything to him. Under the weight of them, Castiel broke down and returned the hug so desperately and forcefully that Dean squeaked a little. They stayed like that for a long time and Castiel hung on as if Dean were the only thing that would keep him grounded to earth. Without knowing him, Castiel felt safe with Dean.

"Shh. I've got you."

Castiel leaned into him and didn't let go, "Do you promise?"

"Yeah."

Reluctantly, Castiel let go and so did Dean, leaving the pair of them to wonder at each other in silence. Dean wiped away Castiel's tears with gentle fingers and waited a second or two before asking, "Do you still want to play?"

"Yes," Castiel said, trying to smile, wiping away the fuzziness in his eyes.

It was like a switch with Dean. The happiness and good-nature immediately returned, filling Castiel with hope. "You get to count. I'll go hide!" Before Castiel could even react, Dean kissed him on the cheek and jumped up, running off with a care-free bounce to his step.

Left behind in bewilderment, Castiel blushed profusely and lifted his fingertips to touch his wet cheek. He couldn't hide the smile that lifted the sour lines of his face. He had a friend. Other than Jimmy, no one else had paid much attention to him. Castiel hadn't had a friend before. Suddenly, Castiel didn't feel quite as sad.

With a new found excitement, Castiel covered his eyes and began to count, anxious to find his new friend in the maze of trees and sunlight.


	2. Part II

**The Addiction**

"_All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation."_

—_W. H. Auden_

_**Springfield, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

Tucked away in a seedy part of Springfield, the tall building loomed ahead of him as if it were some sort of dilapidated omen. It had been rather difficult to find Dean, and Castiel had discovered that his… target had been well-versed in disappearing with a heavy emphasis on non-existence. Castiel had begun his search in Chicago and, after breaking a few bones, had gathered enough information to lead him here; to an apartment complex off the main hustle and bustle of the city.

The Mafioso stood in the alleyway behind the building and savored the cigarette's smoke caught in his lungs. It did nothing to calm his nerves. He was too pent up with nervous energy, his gut revolting with a million knives. Flicking the spent cigarette aside, he did what he could to gather his composure and moved unsteadily into the building through the back. The hallways were narrow and reminded Castiel of how tight his chest felt, of how much harder it was to breathe. Castiel wondered if he'd suffocate before he even reached Dean, fantasized that he'd willingly face that fate than the alternative.

With each step painfully reminding him of why he was here, Castiel grew more uncertain with every passing second. He wanted to turn back and he almost did several times. The choice between carrying out his orders and running away had him frozen on the stairs. His anxiety had resurfaced after years of being dormant, tightening his airways so tragically that he could barely breathe. The very prospect of even seeing Dean after everything that had happened—

He shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts, grip tight on the banister. Reluctantly, Castiel willed himself to move again, eventually finding himself at the door of the presumed apartment. He stared for a long time and imagined what lay on the other side. He hoped nothing. Castiel hoped that Dean had fled or never existed in the first place. He wasn't ready for this and he certainly wasn't ready for the panic that swept over him.

"I can't do this," Castiel whispered to himself. "I can't fucking do this."

His head was swimming. Castiel could easily turn and walk away, go home and tell his family that he couldn't find Dean. But he knew that wouldn't work, knew that Lucifer would send one of the other brothers to finish the job. It was better this way. It had to be. Castiel could disencumber his life of the addiction that he had never been able to shake from his bones. Dean had been his drug all those years ago, coursing through his veins like a poison, a caustic additive that left him senseless. Castiel couldn't go back to that life, days where all he wanted to do was sink into Dean's arms and solely exist there. That obsession… had never been healthy.

Castiel swallowed hard and tried to thread together his unraveling pieces, tried to convince himself that what he needed to do was unavoidable. He had to shelve his emotion, had to be what was necessary—an unthinking, killing soldier. The anxiety subsided momentarily, just long enough for Castiel to palm his .38 Colt. With dread and uncertainty, he withdrew it and readied himself to disperse the bullet that would dissolve all his pain.

His hand grazed the door, gradually making it down to the doorknob so slowly as if to suspend time, to delay the inevitable. Like this was a role he was always meant to play. The Mafioso closed his eyes again and whispered a prayer—

"God, give me strength."

—before opening the door to step inside. He was too wrapped in himself to even wonder why it had been unlocked in the first place. Castiel only thought of one thing, had wired it into a natural reflex; find where to aim and then shoot.

Without thinking, Castiel raised the gun at an angle, putting it in line with the silhouette facing the window. But that was as far as he had planned. Castiel didn't want to look to Dean, hadn't prepared his subconscious long enough to survive it. He didn't want to marvel at the man he had become. But he caught himself looking, even worse, staring so hard that his heart and soul nearly burned. God, he was gorgeous. Breath-taking. Though the light from the window blurred the finer details, Castiel could make out the sculptured lines of Dean's face. Foolishly, he tried to memorize everything. The way his jaw tensed. The way his tongue swept over his lips. How his mouth opened—

"I knew your kind would find me eventually," Dean said, his voice deep like dark, rich tobacco. Dean never turned to look at Castiel.

When the vocal notes hit his ears, Castiel swallowed hard as his heart leapt into his throat. His stomach coiled with a jab of unchaste excitement, a sensation that quickly became restless anxiety. Dean could have simply breathed and it would have had the same effect. Castiel said nothing, couldn't, and struggled to perform even the most basic of functions. He hadn't even noticed that he had lowered his gun.

Having received no response in word or gunshot, Dean turned to look at the door. Castiel remembered those green eyes, but never before had they looked so... stunning.

Dean's face showed a pained, yet soulful recognition. Castiel could feel his own resolve melt under the weight of his eyes, his pain, and their past. It was a devastating revelation that, after so many years, _this_ of all things had brought them together again.

"Cas?" Dean whispered. "Is that you?"

Castiel fought around the cotton in his throat. Reality struck him then and he remembered—he had a job to do. Lightning quick, he raised the gun to line it up with Dean's head. Castiel couldn't bear to say too much, knowing that, with each passing second, his mission was in danger of failure.

"Dean," was all Castiel could manage.

The muted pain on Dean's face intensified. "Out of everyone, they had to send _you_ to kill me."

_Shoot him._

He tuned in to his conscience, the little voice that begged him to carry out his mission. But when Dean decided to move, Castiel became distracted, throwing away his sensibilities all too easily. Dean turned to fully face him and Castiel could see all of him against the subdued light, every dip and curve making him weaker. It was as if an exquisite artist had taken great care and consideration when creating Dean, spending the utmost time on each part and molding him to perfection. The tight lines of his physique left nothing to the imagination, bleeding into angled hips that would make anyone unsteady and gasping for air. But it was the passive-aggressive allure of muscles that caused his heart to race, hard and well-toned under the soft fabric of his pale dress shirt. Fuck. Was he breathing? Castiel exhaled forcibly and tried to resume the steady intake and discharge of air; normal behavior that should have come naturally.

Dean strode toward him with a confidence and grace that set him back on his heels, full of a give-'em-hell attitude that was entirely… too fucking sexy. Castiel tried to tear his eyes away and jerked the gun upward in defense, aiming it and tightening his grip on steel. Even this didn't stop Dean Winchester. He kept coming, kept walking toward Castiel without even a misstep. Dean had always been one to face danger, but death? It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Castiel had to do this and yet he continued to struggle against the idea of killing him.

_Goddamnit! Shoot him!_

Castiel tensed as Dean moved closer, stepping back each time Dean stepped forward. Soon, only a few feet separated them. Dean stood impossibly close, having stopped just before the gun's muzzle. Here, Castiel had full view of Dean's face and swallowed down its unparalleled beauty, every detail further damning him. Dean still had the dusting of freckles over his tanned skin, and those long lashes never seemed to veil the fire of those eyes. Stubble shadowed his strong jaw line, and his lips… were so full and inviting.

The silence that stretched between them was thick. As green eyes studied him, Castiel felt as if Dean was clawing deeply into his soul. He couldn't return the stare any longer and instinctively looked down—just like when they were children.

"What have those fucking guineas done to you?" Dean asked quietly.

The racial slur against his family sparked a flare of anger. Castiel had an instinctive urge to strike out, but for what reason? It wasn't because of the insult, but because of Dean himself. His proximity, the very fact that he was _here _to begin with was ripping him apart. Castiel froze, felt trapped, and in the next second… The Mafioso flung his arm backward, effectively back-handing Dean with the gun. The attempt hit Dean squarely in the face, causing him to stumble back and double over.

"They are my family!" Castiel hissed. "You will show them some respect, _capito_?"

Dean held his face, growling, "Fuck, Cas!"

It took Dean no time to turn on him, brandishing his own gun to raise it in line with Castiel's face. Another Colt, gun metal shimmering in deadly promise. Dean's cheek was bloody and bruised, skin torn by the force of the attack. Yet it did nothing to diminish his beauty. He had become lethal in that moment and the stone-cold intensity of his battered face did things to Castiel.

"You've changed," Dean glared.

Castiel snapped out of his temporary reverie and noticed a pattern in his own behavior. Anger lessened the effect Dean had over him. It was then that Castiel embraced the slow boil of his anger, unequivocally ignited.

"I've changed?" Castiel barked back incredulously. "You—figlio di puttana," he hissed, punctuating with the forward-jab of the gun into Dean's chest. "I am what you created, Dean! Whatever I have become is because of you. It all began and ended with you!"

"Cas—" Dean warned, jolted back with the jab, his handsome face tight with anger and pain. "That doesn't mean you can fucking hit me!"

"It's the least you deserve," Castiel spat back. "You left me behind."

"Do you think if I had a choice, I would have done it? I was young! I had to do what was best for Sammy—"

"Fuck your precious Sammy!"

Castiel knew immediately that he had made a tactical error and the confirmation came in the form of a hard fist. It had been easy for Castiel to determine the precise moment Dean had decided to strike. The way his eyes darkened, the sudden tightening in his entire body, how quickly his skin had turned red—all clues to tell Castiel he had made a horrible mistake. In the last second, Castiel turned his head and took the punch to the side of the face. His world exploded with stars and pain and he stumbled a few steps, back hitting the door. The result of the impact caused him to drop his gun and his head felt naked with the loss of his hat. Although Castiel couldn't see him, he felt Dean on him in an instant, gripping his throat and breathing hot air over his neck. Dazed and confused, Castiel could barely hear Dean. He could only focus on how much it fucking hurt.

"If you ever… say that .. I will fu.. kill you—"

Seconds would pass before Dean's voice became clearer.

"You don't know, do you," Dean's words were puffs of air prickling his skin. "You wouldn't have said that if you knew."

Castiel cringed as the pain throbbed in his skull. It began to subside, albeit slowly, returning his mental clarity and giving him an accurate picture of his situation. And it was as if Castiel suddenly remembered where he was. Dean was pressed against him, hand still around his throat, and was silent and staring. The momentary lapse of pain and suffering hadn't quelled Castiel's anger and he began to struggle, pressing his hands against Dean's chest to push him away.

"Cas—"

Castiel growled, thrusting outward with his hands, "Let go of me."

Castiel was angry for so many reasons and it translated well into quick hands that wanted nothing more than to push Dean far, far away. To his dismay, Dean wouldn't move. To his further irritation, Dean fought back. He was as stubborn as he had always been, never backing down from anything. It was a quality Castiel had admired—and a thing he hated now. A flurry of hands and struggling ensued, Dean going so far as to slam him against the door with such force that it almost knocked the air from Castiel's lungs.

Having been blinded by fury, Castiel hadn't registered how incredibly close Dean had become—and he couldn't help but notice it now. His proximity became a palpable seduction, overwhelming him in ways that were indescribable. Dean's scent was sweet, thick and heady, easily piercing Castiel's rage to deflate it instantly. The intoxicating mixture consisted of an earthy richness, of spice and skin soaked in the outside air, and danger that was both fierce and powerful. It paralyzed Castiel, forced him to realize other details that had otherwise escaped him during the heat of their argument. Like the way Dean's hips pressed into him. Everything changed in that second. The spark that had always been between them ignited and blazed, leaving Castiel vulnerable and out of his own control. Suddenly, Dean was irresistible. Breathing was hard to come by and Castiel remembered how much he had enjoyed this roughness. If Dean was still who Castiel knew him to be, he wasn't the only one. Angry hands and heated struggling gave way to mutual need.

Dean slammed him against the door again, inciting more than a gasp from Castiel's throat, a sound that bled into a groan. Dean's hand came up next, fingers fanned against Castiel's cheek while a thumb brushed against his bottom lip. It took every fiber of Castiel's being to prevent another groan from slipping past his throat. Even the slightest touch sent Castiel's skin flickering with an excitable energy. Dean was the Devil's temptation.

As the thumb swept across his lip, Castiel slackened his jaw and tilted his head back, reveling in the sensation of Dean's warmth, his presence, his smell—everything that made him Castiel's deepest obsession. Castiel couldn't help but notice the way Dean licked his own lips and stared at his mouth. It was the only indication Castiel was given before Dean took what he wanted.

Roughly, Dean gripped Castiel's hair and pulled it back at a sharp angle. It hurt, but Castiel didn't care, not when Dean crushed their mouths together, hurried and desperate with want. The spontaneity sent Castiel into a numb stupor and he couldn't find the voice to protest. Everything that was _Dean_ crippled him, trapping him against the door. Somehow, he was able to return the kiss in full force, tongues meeting again after years of neglect. Castiel almost lost the power of his legs, weak in the knees from the rush of it all. The part of him that was still in love with Dean wanted to live in this moment forever.

Even while everything spiraled out of control, Castiel was aware of the growing heat in his pants, felt Dean's hard cock pressed against his thigh. Castiel ignored his light-headedness and roughly pulled Dean, in an attempt to close the distance between their lower bodies. The momentum pitched Dean forward, hands slamming against the door on either side of Castiel's face. It was instinctive the way Castiel's hips sprung outward to grind against him, seeking the heat and friction that he so craved. He knew he was tempting fate, knew how wrong and dangerous this was. Castiel was like an addict, chasing the thrill and ultimate high of his drug.

One fluid manipulation of Dean's hand loosened the blue tie and first button of Castiel's rigid dress shirt, laying bare the skin at his neck. Dean mouthed and sucked and bit, sending shivers down Castiel's spine. He felt his own skin light up as Dean's hand began to wander down, teasing him over the folds of clothing at his stomach. So close… fingertip-touches dragging along the hardened length of his cock. Castiel's breath hitched and his hips shot forward shamelessly, wanting even just a second of Dean's hands all over him. It was sickening how much Castiel just wanted Dean to fuck him.

That was when doubt and shame began to niggle at the back of his head.

_This isn't right. I shouldn't be doing this._

Castiel felt the need to escape, but it was the way Dean grazed his erection, kissed hungrily at his neck that kept him sinfully complacent in that moment. Any more of this and Castiel would surely be damned. He couldn't do this. It had to stop… Castiel whimpered and began to struggle against him.

"Dean," he whispered, trying to push him away.

Dean pressed their mouths together to stop Castiel from talking, suffocating his denial altogether. Now, even the thought of resisting was impossible to fathom. After all these years…

Castiel twisted his fists into Dean's pale dress shirt, pulling him in for one more desperate ounce of that kiss. In that moment, their joining hit critical mass. Dean grabbed at his face, pulled him in desperately as if Castiel could never be close enough. His other hand continued its wicked service against Castiel's cock, the added pressure—_fuck_. It felt too good. Castiel opened his mouth in full surrender, tongues sliding together in a way that was all search and no shame. Dean moaned, fought into Castiel's pants to find the burning heat—

And that was when Castiel snapped out of it.

Castiel choked on his anxiety as it finally rose up in mutiny, bringing with it the truth of his reality; to society, to his family, to God, homosexuality was a mental illness—and he was sick with it. His family would be disgusted, ashamed, and would kill him if they ever found out. The harsh strictures of the _Cosa Nostra_ had no tolerance for his disease. Castiel knew he was in danger…

It was the sudden rise in panic that brought it all to an end. Castiel struggled against him wildly, making Dean grip even harder. Stubborn and unwilling to let him go, Dean kissed him again. This had to stop now. With a primal sound of frustration, Castiel used all of his strength to push Dean away. The momentum sent his addiction back with a startled yelp, sprawling him out on the bed in a way that was incredibly arousing.

"Cas—"

"I can't do this, Dean. This isn't me anymore," Castiel turned away and fumbled for the door knob. "I'm not your 'Cas' any longer." Without another word, Castiel opened the door and fled from the room with Dean quick on his heels.

"Cas!"

Castiel ignored the call of his name and descended the staircase, focused only on how he would escape. He saw his freedom in the front door of the apartment complex and sped through it. The sudden cold air bit at his skin, bringing to his mind a sense of clarity. But it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

He leaned against the cool brick of the alley and felt a hopelessness consume him. Castiel would never escape Dean Winchester. And everything he felt, his frustration, his shame… With a growl, he thundered his fist into the wall, clenching his teeth against the agony.

He had learned long ago that intense pain was the only way to immediately erase Dean from his mind.

**The Injured Lover**

"_Jealousy is the injured lover's hell."_

—_John Milton_

_**Summit, Illinois, 1915 – Seventeen Years Ago**_

Careful steps brought Castiel to the front door of a perfect home. Its windows were bright and welcoming, trim flawlessly white and flowerbeds immaculate. All of it, from the charming details to the warmth it exuded, embodied what it was to be a perfect family—an idea that laughed in the face of those who had nothing.

And in that moment, he hated it.

Castiel stood in front of the Winchester house with a frown on his face. Impatience fueled his barrage against the front door in a series of quick, hard thumps that left him seething. Jaw clenched tight, Castiel crossed his arms over his chest and waited. All of his upset disappeared when she opened the door.

"Oh, Castiel. I'm so glad you're here, sweetheart."

Mary Winchester. The perfect mother. She wiped her pale hands on her apron and smiled, wide and brilliant. Her cheeks were dusted with flour and her sunny blonde hair lay tousled around her face. Even in the throes of motherhood, she was beautiful. Somehow, Castiel could feel his anger simply melt away.

"Hi, Mrs. Winchester," Castiel said quietly, subdued by her grace. He looked past her into the house. "Is Dean home?"

"He's in his room," she spared him one of her most disarming smiles, stepping aside from the door.

Castiel walked in and smiled up at her.

"Won't you stay for pie, dear? It's Dean's favorite; apple. I think he'd like that."

"I'd like that too," Castiel whispered.

"You go find Dean," she caressed his cheek affectionately. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

Castiel looked down as his face blushed. She had treated him like one of her sons, had nearly given him a home when he had felt like he didn't have one. For whatever reason, he had to escape her kindness. It was crushing him. Saying nothing, he slinked off to find Dean. With each and every step, his anger returned and grew more intense until he was trembling. Dean Winchester had everything. The perfect parents. The perfect brother. The perfect life. But even that wasn't the source of his rage. Dean had wronged Castiel and he was determined to set everything right.

Castiel headed for Dean's room, winding through hallways and sensible furniture that became background haze to his jealousy. He didn't bother to knock on the door, marching straight into the room with a specific agenda. It was with a growl that Castiel slammed the door closed, furious as he looked at Dean. Castiel could tell already that Dean wasn't amused. In fact, he looked angry, but Castiel didn't care.

"Cas—" Dean hissed.

"I saw you," Castiel pointed accusingly.

"What—"

"I saw you kiss Lisa," Castiel interjected quickly.

Dean flinched, "Uh…"

Castiel didn't even let him respond. "You fucked her, didn't you!" He could barely control his anger, his voice shrill. "You're mine!"

"Oh, fuck, Cas. That's ridiculous."

Castiel glowered at him dangerously, clenching his fists at his sides. _Ridiculous_? His anger devoured every bit of him until it was the only thing he could feel. Castiel did everything he could not to lash out at him, not to charge or scream at him. Daringly, Dean approached the contained tornado—to chide or to console him, Castiel didn't know. He stood his ground, staring at Dean with an insatiable fire in his eyes. His arms twitched and his body begged him to release the pent up energy.

"Is it true? Did you fuck her, Dean?" Castiel growled.

"Cas, calm down."

"No! Answer me!" Castiel hissed.

Dean frowned, jaw tensing.

"You did, didn't you!" Castiel screamed.

"Yes,goddamnit! I fucked her!"

Castiel's eyes widened, barely had time to register the admission before he simply lost it. Everything happened too fast. He pushed Dean back with a growl and somehow found the bravery to slap his face. Dean's head whipped to the side and he held his cheek for several seconds before slowly turning to look at Castiel. Like a wild, dangerous animal studying its dinner. His green eyes boiled and Dean was on Castiel in a flash, ignoring the frantic, feeble hands that sought to hit him in every which way. Dean caught him by the shoulders and threw him back against the wall, closing the distance between their bodies. Castiel struggled, cheeks flush with anger, and whimpered when Dean gripped his face tightly.

"Don't you _ever_ hit me again," Dean hissed, every word weighted heavy in threat.

Castiel blew out a shaky breath and didn't back down, "Is—is this a game for you? Are you having fun? Because I'm not!" Castiel screamed at him, trying to break free of his tight hold. He couldn't deny the emotions that overcame him, leaving his voice broken and pathetic. "Why would you do that to me? I lo—"

Dean put a hand over his mouth. He didn't want to hear those words—he never wanted to hear them.

"You're not the only one, Cas. You never were."

The revelation hit Castiel hard, crippled him, weakened his legs to the point that he almost fell over. He felt light-headed, nauseous… and heart-broken. Dean was Castiel's everything and the threat of losing him was just… too much to handle. Was Dean bored of him? Did Dean ever care about him in the first place? Castiel wanted to be Dean's only one; the sole person he loved, wanted to be with, and the only one Dean ever wanted to fuck. Castiel would do anything to make Dean happy, anything to keep him from straying.

Castiel shook the hand from his face and lunged forward to kiss Dean hard and recklessly, fingers searching and touching with a heated desperation that he didn't know he had. It sparked a fire in Dean so fierce that it stole Castiel's breath away. Dean leaned into him and crushed his lips against Castiel's, hands fighting to find a sensible pattern over arms and hips as teenage hormones went into overdrive. It was only a matter of seconds before Dean turned both of them abruptly away from the wall, pushing Castiel back onto the bed with more force than was necessary. Castiel fell onto it with the graceless flail of limbs and was quickly flipped facedown by Dean's strong hands. Dean was on him instantly, his hips bearing down on Castiel's backside, making his arousal evident.

"Dean," Castiel was breathless. "Do it."

Dean exhaled a breath of pure lust into his ear and roughly grabbed at his hair. Castiel whimpered.

"Be gentle. Please."

"But I don't like it—" Dean began.

"Please," Castiel begged. "Try."

Dean stopped for a second and released the tight hold on Castiel's hair, peppering small kisses on the back of his neck. Castiel was soon without his pants, soothed by the room's warm and gentle air while Dean shifted behind him. What Castiel felt next was Dean's naked form, hard cock hot and wanting. He didn't care if it hurt. He didn't care if he rarely experienced pleasure because Dean was too fast, too impatient, too incapable of being gentle. Castiel just wanted to please Dean, if only to guarantee that he wouldn't lose him.

The intrusion of fingers felt uncomfortable, leaving Castiel to squirm at the sensation. They had done this very thing countless of times. But it had never been easy. It always hurt. Even still, Castiel wouldn't trade it for anything. It was the only time he felt truly close to Dean, as if they had an unfailing ability to come together and get lost in each other.

Dean lavished hurried kisses along Castiel's neck, breathing moans into his skin. His version of gentle was barely-there lips skittering over flesh, a slower fuck-and-leave-'em. It helped, but it wasn't enough. With an unsteady sigh, Castiel reached behind him to palm Dean's ass, pulling him closer. And with a thrust—

"Hey, Clarence."

**In Pieces**

"_As memory may be a paradise from which we cannot be driven,_

_it may also be a hell from which we cannot escape."_

—_John Lancaster Spalding_

_**Springfield, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

"Hey, Clarence."

Castiel frowned and looked up to find a whore hovering over him. The sound of her voice had ripped him out of his daydream, her smile wide and lascivious. Suddenly, he was in the present again, the sights, smells and sounds of the speakeasy swirling around him in a blur. It was a dingy place where one could sell their soul or immerse themselves in sorrow. The aroma of smoke and liquor accompanied the sound of soft jazz, partial conversations and uproarious laughter. He was among people from all walks of life who drank and danced-if only for a second's worth of peace away from the struggle of everyday living.

"Oh. You're not who I was looking for—" the whore said, eyeing all of him, "—but you'll do just fine."

Castiel looked away and tuned her out. He had settled into one of the tables in the back, hidden away from the main thoroughfare with a drink and a cigarette. Somehow, this whore had found him. Just like his memories. All he wanted to do was escape, to drown his past in liquor. But neither the strongest drink nor the haze of inebriation could dull the memory he had of Dean. Especially when it had to do with lust and sex. Castiel shifted uncomfortably to help ease the rock-hard pressure in his pants. Alcohol wasn't enough to alleviate that either.

The whore turned his face toward her, smiling at him. She tried to touch him again, but he wouldn't have it. The chill of his glare made her back away momentarily. But like a leech, she came in close again. Too close.

"Oh, a shy one, are you?" Her words danced along his neck. "That's okay, darlin'. I'll loosen you right up."

The cigarette's fiery tip matched the irritation that flared in his eyes. He sucked in hard and expelled the smoke before turning to regard her a little more closely. Her face was dainty with bright lips and deep brown eyes, hair in short finger-waves. She probably would have been considered attractive if he bothered to stop and consider it.

"The name's Meg," she oozed.

Castiel didn't care.

"What's yours, sweetheart?"

"None of your fucking business," he snapped before downing the rest of his drink.

Had that been an invitation? Like a moth to the flame, Meg came closer and gripped his chin tightly, leaning over to purr in his ear. "I like my men with a mouth on them. Just thinking about what you can do with it makes me all dewy."

Castiel jerked his chin out of her fingers and glared at her, but she didn't stop. Meg licked her lips and aimed lower, greedy hand diving to search between his legs. With his reflexes dulled, she was able to touch and grab, causing him to flinch and his anger to ignite.

"My, aren't you a big one—"

Castiel slammed his uninjured hand down on the table and stood up quickly, grabbing her arm. She gasped out in pain and hurried along as he dragged her toward the bathroom.

"Where are we going?"

"Shut up," Castiel growled.

Castiel threw open the bathroom door and pushed her in, closing it behind him with a force that rattled it on its hinges. Not wasting another second, he shoved the whore forward with everything he had, watched her trip and somehow catch herself on the edge of the sink. She was ready for him like this, bent over, sending a startled glance over her shoulder that thrilled him. Castiel came up behind her and grabbed her hair, forcing her head down toward the bottom of the sink's well. She whimpered, but he ignored her. For her, he intended the position to be uncomfortable and compromising. For him, it was perfect—he didn't have to look at her.

In response to his treatment, Meg groaned and swiveled her hips, grinding her ass against his half-hard cock, "You like it rough, I see—"

Her voice was like a knife scraping against bone and it sent a disgusted chill down his spine. Castiel pulled her hair back until her body arched and rested against his chest, his mouth at her ear. She was in pain and he enjoyed it.

"Don't say another fucking word," he hissed.

Meg emitted a sound that existed somewhere between pleasure and pain when he roughly pitched her forward. He raised her skirt, ripped at the barely-there under things and worked himself free. He wasn't stupid enough to be without protection and would use it now to save himself from the diseases he imagined her to have. All of the latex in the world couldn't quell his revulsion.

Without hesitation, Castiel pushed into her without kindness, his cock surrounded by her warmth in a way that sickened him. Meg moaned loudly beneath him as he set the pace, rough yet rhythmic, driving into her over and over again. This was normalcy; fucking dames without inhibitions. Anything else was a sickness—_his _sickness. He was a freak, broken, and he hated himself for it.

"Harder!"

Castiel frowned above her and growled, pulling her hair viciously. He could see her reflection in the mirror and the pain written on her face. "You are not in control," he snapped, jerking her head. "I am."

He pulsed into her repeatedly, hard and rough, bringing about a chorus of moans from her lips. He cleared his mind to lose himself in the moment and tried to find satisfaction in the wet slip and slide of their bodies. Instead of pleasure, Castiel found more hatred for himself. He had to think of something else, had to concentrate... In the heat of the moment, his subconscious traded dark brown hair for lighter and shorter, brown eyes for green... her reflection for **his**. Suddenly, the situation was bearable. Finally, he found some ounce of pleasure in all of this.

Meg continued to call out noisily, breaking his concentration and his fantasy to pieces. Castiel growled again, stopped fucking her altogether to loosen the tie at his neck, to wad it up and stuff it into her mouth. The whore's eyes went wide.

"Shut the fuck up," Castiel commanded.

Resuming his rhythm, Castiel held her head down as he jolted her body forward with each powerful, dominating thrust. He felt her warmth all over him, yet it wasn't the whore that he was fucking. Not anymore. It was **him**; his drug, his addiction. Castiel imagined Dean's mouth around his cock, hot and wet, sucking hard as if his life depended on it. Several moments like this and Castiel's breath hitched. All of it, the fantasy, the sensations, pushed him closer to the edge. It wasn't the whore he had bent over the sink. It was Dean, begging Castiel to fuck him harder, moaning and compliant beneath him, gagged because he talked too fucking much.

Castiel closed his eyes and gripped both of Dean's hips tightly to gain leverage, rocking into him with no consideration of his pain. He lost himself in his fantasy, felt his orgasm just there, so close. And as it happened, as that feeling shattered through his body fast and hard, Castiel called out Dean's name. His body's release left him breathless, weak, warm and perfect all over. And it had everything to do with Dean.

Castiel leaned forward and braced himself on the sink's edges, breathing hard with sweat beading his brow. Spewing ragged breaths, Meg didn't move or squirm out from beneath him. Castiel slipped out of her and backed away, threw the used prophylactic aside before righting himself in his clothes. An immediate sense of shame washed over him. Not because he had fucked a whore, but because he had used the thought of Dean to excite himself. Fuck. He thought he was over this shit. It had taken years, but—goddamnit. Just seeing him after all this time… He felt angry, and ashamed, and—

"That was… incredible," the whore said breathlessly.

Castiel couldn't even respond. He stood there wavering on his feet, shell-shocked by everything that he was feeling, by everything that was crashing in on him.

"Are you all right, darlin'?"

When Castiel blinked, he felt a tear slide down his cheek. It was hot, burning, like the frustration in his chest, but it was his misery that left him cold. The realization that he had _never_ truly been in control when it came to Dean—

He felt a touch on his shoulder and he flinched, nearly startled. Castiel looked to find the whore staring at him, dark eyes genuine with concern.

"Get out," he whispered through clenched teeth. Another tear.

The panic that flashed across Meg's face made him remember. He fumbled for his money, hands shaking as he quickly shoved the folded bills at her. Relief and then… shocked disbelief as Meg stared at the plentiful wad of money in her hands. In that moment, Castiel saw something of himself in her. Instead of a whore, he saw a woman who struggled to live with herself every day. They were the same, fighting to hide themselves from the cruelty of the world.

When she looked up at him, stared at him, a single tear fell down her face. He looked down, away from her, and handed her a few more bills. "Just.. get the fuck out."

Meg emitted a stifled, surprised noise but didn't say anything else before rushing out of the bathroom.

The light above him flickered noisily and the drip of the faucet was his only company. He had been left alone… with himself; his worst goddamn enemy. The weight of everything he felt was so heavy, so crushing that he had to steady himself against the sink. He hung over it like he was going to be sick, gripping the porcelain as if his life depended on it. Fucking Dean Winchester. Everything Castiel had done to keep that man out of his mind.. and it was all for nothing. He hated how weak he truly was. He thought he was stronger than this. No matter what he did, Dean would always, _always_ find a way to fuck it all up. Castiel would _always_ be that stupid boy in love with him.

Castiel breathed in deep to calm himself, closed his eyes to gather whatever willpower he had left. With a hard swallow, he lifted his head up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The way his own face looked; so lost, so helpless and torn…

"You.. _pathetic _piece of shit. You're disgusting."

_Fucking worthless son of a bitch.._

He couldn't even forget _one_ man, couldn't even dislodge Dean-fucking-Winchester out of his goddamn life for even one second. An angry tear fell down his face as he continued to stare at his own reflection. He felt sick at the sight of himself. Hated everything he had ever been, would ever be—

He shook as his rage boiled inside of his chest, as hot tears sped down his face. With a vicious growl, Castiel smashed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered into a hundred pieces and left his injured hand bloody and in even more pain. But he didn't give a shit. He couldn't see anything beyond the pure hatred he had for himself or what he knew he was. A fucking coward. A pathetic child that would never stop living in the past.

Castiel stumbled back into the wall and slipped down to the floor with his head in his hands. After all these years, he still hadn't shaken Dean Winchester from his soul, had never escaped what he truly was. The truth and revelation came crashing down on him, leaving him completely unraveled.

Tears rolled freely down his face and dissolved into ragged sobbing. He tried desperately to choke them back, tried to find some semblance of self control. But he couldn't. With a bitter, frustrated cry, Castiel ran his fingers through his hair, gripping it hard. The weight of his self-hatred and shame sunk his head low between his knees. No matter how hard he tried, Castiel would _never_ be able to escape himself.

**Empty**

"_Absence from whom we love is worse than death,_

_and frustrates hope severer than despair."_

—_William Cowper_

_**Summit, Illinois, 1915 – Seventeen Years Ago**_

Cloudless, blue skies stretched for miles and miles. Castiel sat on the porch and chipped off a bit of the wooden block with a knife. Whittling was a hobby he had taken up recently to fill his free time. He enjoyed its simplicity and the gifts he was able to make. Periodically, he'd look over his shoulder to beam a smile at his mother, Eva, who sat quietly, folding laundry. They'd share a giggle here and there, and erupt into conversation to fill the empty silence between them. But all of the happiness and peace of that day would end quickly.

"Castiel," Eva said, pointing. "Who's that boy?"

Castiel looked up from his work and stared straight ahead into the bright light. There was a black car humming idly on the dirt road, ominous and foreshadowing. With his head hung low, hands stuffed in his pockets, Dean Winchester approached them.

"He's just a friend, momma."

Without another word, Castiel launched himself from the porch in a hurry. Even the sun itself couldn't send away the chill that snaked down his spine. Dean wasn't supposed to be here. Dean was **never** supposed to be here.

They met somewhere in the middle, the road wide and endless around them. Before Dean could say anything, Castiel began to scold him, "What are you doing here? You can't be here. You know that."

Dean stood in silence for a long time, eyes downcast and expression solemn. The playfulness in Dean's demeanor had disappeared and had been replaced with something dark and devastating.

"I came to say goodbye," he said quietly.

The announcement rocked Castiel back on his heels. He found himself stuck somewhere between shock and the beginnings of a panic attack. In that moment, beneath the weight of those words, Castiel could barely think, could barely remember how to talk. When he eventually found his voice, it was soft and broken, "What—why? Where are you going?" A second went by with no answer, "Dean?"

Dean finally looked up and Castiel could see his beautiful face, could tell that he had been crying. His green eyes were marbled with red, his face puffy—all evidence that something had truly struck him.

"Me and Sammy…" he began. "We're gonna go live with Uncle Bobby."

"Why?" Another second went by, "Dean, why?" Castiel didn't even let Dean answer him before he asked more questions, "What did I do? Did I do something? Is that why you're leaving?"

Panic began to suffocate him.

"No. I—I don't want to talk about it," Dean said in a whisper.

Castiel fully realized the sadness on his face. Dean Winchester was the strongest person Castiel knew and the fact that he had been crying… frightened him. He didn't care that Dean shouldn't be here, that their secret might be known to the world. Unashamed, Castiel hugged him tightly and, for once, Dean didn't struggle. "Please. Tell me what I did. Tell me what's wrong," Castiel could barely breathe. "Whatever it is. I'll promise I'll be better. I—"

"Cas," Dean sighed. "You didn't do anything. This isn't about you."

It was almost as if Castiel didn't hear him at all. "I don't want you to leave. Please promise you'll stay. I promise I'll never say those words again. The ones you hate. I—"

"Goddamnit, Cas. Listen to me," Dean held him out at arm's length. "This isn't about you. My—" He steeled his jaw. Tears rimmed his eyes. "My parents… they're dead."

The news shocked Castiel. Mary and John Winchester. Dead. Castiel could feel his own heart ache. "How? How did they die, Dean?"

"They were inside. They—they couldn't get out," Dean mumbled. "The house, everything… all gone in the fire."

Castiel watched his face as it broke down, as one single tear fell from his beautiful green eyes. He wanted to kiss Dean, take away all of his hurt, comfort him and promise him that everything would be all right. Castiel settled for leaning forward, resting his forehead against Dean's in a way that embodied everything Castiel couldn't do in that second—heal him, save him. Dean closed his eyes, far too defeated to do anything else.

"I have to go. I have to be strong for Sammy," Dean finally said.

"When will I see you again?" Castiel asked quickly.

All Dean could do was shrug.

Castiel's eyes flew open wide, "You don't know?" He tilted Dean's head up so their eyes could meet. "Dean, when can I see you? Where does Uncle Bobby live?"

"I don't know. He said we're moving… just to be safe."

"Safe? From what?" Castiel asked.

"Cas, I don't know!"

The gravity of the situation hit Castiel hard. His chest seized with anxiety, with a sense of loss that he couldn't quite understand. And as tears started to form in his eyes, his voice broke from the strain. "Am I—am I ever going to see you again?"

Dean was quiet for a painfully long time, "I don't know—"

"Don't you say that. Don't you **dare** say that." Castiel ignored the tears that sped down his cheeks. "I can't be without you. I can't live without you. You have to stay. Please," Castiel choked back a sob. "Please, Dean. You can't leave me. You just can't. You're the only one I have left."

Uncle Bobby honked the horn impatiently.

"I have to go, Cas," Dean said quietly. He looped something from around his neck and handed it out to Castiel. "Here. Take this. Sammy gave this to me, but—I want you to have it."

Through the tears, Castiel looked at the gift in Dean's hands. It was an amulet. Castiel reluctantly took it, barely even looking at the necklace before stringing it around his neck. He concentrated on keeping it together, did everything he could to prevent from breaking down in front of Dean. Lost in himself, it took Castiel a second to realize that Dean was hugging him, so tightly and with so much love that he could barely believe it was Dean at all. Castiel melted into Dean and cried against him, held on so desperately that it almost hurt.

"Dean. I love you," Castiel whispered into his neck.

"I know."

Uncle Bobby honked the horn again.

"Don't worry, Cas. We'll see each other again soon," Dean said, finally letting go.

Castiel doubted it and somehow knew that he wouldn't see Dean for a long time—if ever. It was as if Dean knew it too because, in that moment, Castiel felt Dean's lips against his in a kiss that was so meaningful, so genuine that it pained him. To Castiel, this felt like goodbye. This felt like his world was about to end and that he was going to die. As if nothing else mattered, Castiel gave all of himself to that tragic and final kiss, whimpering like a wounded animal when Dean finally pulled away. With tears in his eyes, Castiel watched Dean walk away from him, crushing his hopes, his dreams, like nothing else could.

"Dean," Castiel pleaded. "Please. Please don't leave me."

Dean glanced back with a wounded expression that said everything.

"Dean! Please!"

Castiel stood trapped and watched as Dean got into that car. The engine roared to life and started down the road, taking Dean away from him. From the back window, Dean watched him until they could no longer see each other.

The one person who had ever truly made him happy, his _everything_,was gone. When Castiel could no longer see those stunning green eyes—that was when he broke down completely. He fell to his knees on the road and cried until his heart ached and his throat felt dry from the effort. He quietly begged Dean to come back until he couldn't, prayed until God turned a deaf ear to him.

Dean had been his entire world, filled his life with meaning. Without him, he had nothing. Without him, he was.. empty.


	3. Part III

**Relapse**

"_Those who flee temptation generally leave a forwarding address."_

—_Lane Olinghouse_

_**Springfield, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

Fucking Dean.

It was already starting. The way Dean seeped into his bones and corroded everything from self-control to his very dignity. Castiel should have killed him. He should have pulled the gun's trigger without a second thought, the way a real killer would have. To his dismay, he had been an idiot for letting Dean Winchester live.

This time would be different.

This time, Castiel would find satisfaction in the sound of the gunshot that would quell his addiction. He had resolved himself in what he had to do. Like steel, he wouldn't bend, he wouldn't cave under failure. Finally, Castiel felt confident, something he hadn't felt in.. ages.

Where once he had trudged up apartment complex's steps with hesitation, he now did so with an air of superiority and ease. No longer did he feel trapped between uncertainty and anxiety. Instead, he was steadfast with determination and a sense of mission. Castiel anticipated success, wanted to feel that surge of pride knowing that he had overcome his obstacles. These self-elevating thoughts brought him up the stairs to the apartment without stall and without second guesses. By the time he had opened the unlocked door and stepped inside, Castiel had withdrawn his second .38 Colt. The comforting chill of steel in his hand solidified his fortitude.

Yes. This time would be different.

The pungent smell of alcohol hit him first. It was so strong, so vile that it reminded Castiel of gasoline. He turned cold eyes to the form slumped in the chair near the window. For a second, Castiel hoped that Dean was dead, that he had somehow drunk himself into a stupor and simply slipped away. But Castiel knew that wouldn't be the case. Dean Winchester wouldn't have died so easily. Just as well. Castiel would send him into the afterlife while he was sleeping. Dean wouldn't feel a thing.

Castiel ignored the sting of regret as he carefully picked his way through the room, stopping just behind the sleeping beauty. Dean looked ridiculous with his head slumped over the back of the chair, mouth wide open. The low rumble of his snoring had a quality about it that was both endearing and annoying. And if his smile was any indication, he appeared caught somewhere in a pleasant dream. Castiel wondered how long it had been since Dean had slept peacefully. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark and Castiel wondered why he hadn't noticed them before. Or why he suddenly cared. Castiel frowned and anchored his resolve, suddenly realizing that his own breathing had nearly stopped. Seeing Dean still stole his breath away.

_Concentrate, Castiel._

His conscience kicked in, reminded him of his mission and begged him quietly to follow orders. After moments of convincing himself, Castiel pressed the gun's muzzle to the top of Dean's head.

And that was when Dean opened his eyes.

His world fell to chaos under that stare. Dean was just too goddamn beautiful. Slowly, Dean smiled. It was perfect and damning at the same time. It began as something sweet then quickly turned into one of those smiles that Castiel detested. Smug. Like the entire world owed him a fucking favor. It was the same shit-eating smile from when they were children. The very same one that suddenly disappeared with the cocking of Castiel's gun.

Silent understanding danced between them.

"Come to kill me again, have you, Cas?" Dean's tone was condescending. Even more insulting, he had the audacity to wink at him, that smug smile in full bloom again.

"Fuck you, Dean," Castiel spat.

"You would like to, wouldn't you?" Dean grinned wide.

Castiel narrowed his eyes to slits. Dean thought this was a game.

"_Pezzo di merda._"

That was all Castiel said before he raised the gun and fired a shot off in frustration. It splintered the wood on the window sill and effectively wiped that fucking smile off Dean's face. For a moment, he even looked startled, glaring after the initial shock had worn off. Fueled by anger, Castiel tipped the chair back with a growl, laying Dean flat and flustered on the floor.

"Goddamn it, Cas!" Dean yelled, scrambling up to a kneeling position.

The gun was brandished again, aimed down at his head while Castiel seethed above him. "Do you think this is a fucking joke, Dean?"

Dean lifted his hands in surrender, backing into the overturned chair. Castiel cut him off before he could even open his mouth.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" Castiel hissed angrily.

"Cas. Calm down."

"No," Castiel snarled, holding the gun in his face.

They stared at each other for a long time.

"Are you… going to shoot me?" Dean asked sarcastically, brows raised. "Or can I stand up? Your choice. You're obviously in control here."

Castiel narrowed his eyes again. Everything told him to shoot Dean. But before Castiel could even make a decision—

"Yeah. I didn't think so."

Castiel stared hard at Dean while he struggled to get to his feet. His movements were slow, sloppy, using the fallen chair as support to make his standing up successful. All Castiel wanted to do was lay him out flat again for being such an arrogant prick.

With a sly smile on his face, Dean swatted him on the ass as he walked by. "Nice try. Really. Almost had me convinced that I might die today."

The liquor on Dean's breath hit him hard.

"Are you fucking drunk?" Castiel snapped.

Dean grinned wide, looking back. "A little."

Unamused, Castiel shook his head. "Pathetic."

Dean chuckled loosely. "You can't even shoot a drunk. Who's the pathetic one here?"

It was getting harder to ignore the verbal jabs. Castiel clenched his teeth and watched Dean walk to the kitchenette, open a new bottle of booze and swallow down more than a mouthful. With a deep frown, Castiel released the hammer of the gun and shoved the weapon into his waistband. He could sense it; a definite edge to everything that embodied Dean, like something was deeply bothering him. And that left Castiel wondering—no, it didn't matter. He didn't care.

Except that he did.

It took him three steps to clear the distance between himself and Dean. "This vice isn't helping you, Dean. What do you think you're doing to yourself?"

Dean looked at him and smirked. "What. Suddenly you care? Who gives a shit."

Castiel exhaled sharply and shook his head, not sparing him any answer. Whipping his hand out, Castiel tore the bottle from Dean's hand easily enough, leaving the drunk to lunge after it.

"What the fuck, Cas?"

Castiel found it easy to bat his hands away, fending him off while moving toward the bathroom. He held the open bottle over the sink—

"Damn it, Cas. What are you doing?"

—and began to pour it out. "Saving you from yourself. You can't drown yourself in booze, Dean."

From behind, Castiel could hear Dean's quick approach. "You sound like my mother!"

"That's impossible. She's dead."

Dean growled. That should have been Castiel's first warning. With Dean as inebriated as he was, Castiel didn't feel he should worry. He was wrong. The kidney shot scored a direct hit and nearly brought Castiel to his knees. He caught himself on the sink and lost his grip on the bottle, causing it to clatter against porcelain. The pain hurt too fucking much.. nearly blinded him. He could barely breathe and fought for control, trying to gulp in air. After several minutes, when he had finally recovered, all Castiel wanted to do was to break that bottle over Dean's head. Instead, he would take the less violent approach in teaching Dean a valuable lesson.

Castiel turned to face Dean and pushed him in retaliation. There hadn't been much force behind the shove. Or so he thought. Uncontrolled, Dean stumbled drunkenly and tipped, smacking head-first into the cast iron radiator with a cry of pain. It was disturbing how quickly Castiel flipped from would-be killer to that love-sick fool. Before Castiel had even made it over to Dean, he must have uttered a hundred apologies. Dean held his head in his hands, blood oozing through fingers. Immediately, Castiel shucked off his pea coat and turned to find a towel. After grabbing it and wetting it, he sunk low to his knees to apply it to Dean's face. Unfortunately, Dean didn't agree with the tender treatment.

"Get the fuck off me!" He hissed, still holding his face.

Castiel flinched back as if Dean would bite him, "Dean. I'm—"

"Leave me alone," Dean snapped. "I can't even stand the sight of you."

Liquor had a funny way of loosening tongues. Castiel knew that his anger was talking, that he was saying things to hurt him on purpose.

"I wish—you know, I'm glad I never came looking for you."

But the pain that statement delivered was brutal. "You don't mean that."

''Yeah, I do."

"Dean—"

"Answer me one thing, Cas," Dean interrupted, ripping the towel from Castiel's hands. "Did you—" Dean winced as he applied pressure to his wound. "—did you kill him?"

"What? Who?" Castiel stared at him, still stunned by his painful remark.

"Sammy!"

Castiel sank back with a lost look on his face, "Sammy's dead?"

"You don't get to call him that!"

"Is Sam dead!" Castiel barked.

"Yes, he's fucking dead," Dean looked at him out of one eye, the towel practically covering the other. "I guess you didn't do it."

"_I guess you didn't do it_?" Castiel echoed with a note of anger. "Of course I didn't do it!" Castiel glared at him coldly, absolutely stunned by the mere thought of the accusation. "What the fuck were you thinking, Dean?"

"Cas—"

"No. You don't get to talk," Castiel shouted at him. "What makes you think I could kill your brother, Dean?"

Dean tried to open his mouth to speak, but Castiel wouldn't let him.

"Don't be fucking stupid," Castiel growled. "I couldn't kill you. God knows how hard I tried." He ran his hand through his hair. "What makes you think I could kill him? Why would I have done such a thing? Who would want to spend the rest of their life knowing Dean Winchester was on their ass? I wouldn't. And that's not even considering the pain it would have caused you."

Dean finally fell quiet and lowered his head again to concentrate on tending to his wound. The silence stretched endlessly between them. Castiel could tell he was losing Dean, could almost feel those walls close up as if they were his own. If nothing more than to touch him, to comfort him, Castiel rested a hand on his shoulder. "How did it happen? Tell me what you know."

Dean shrugged the hand off him, "Why? What good will it do? Sammy's dead. He's not coming back."

"I know that, Dean." Castiel watched him quietly for a few seconds while Dean fussed with his gash. The bathroom floor was cold, uncomfortable and probably unsanitary. Concerned for Dean's well-being, Castiel stood up and extended a hand down to him. "Come on. Let's get you to the bed."

"I'm fine," Dean's reply was curt, stubborn.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not going to sit here all night." Castiel snapped, pulling Dean forcefully to his feet.

Dean wobbled under the effects of the alcohol and was finally able to stand on his own two feet after several attempts. Jerking his arm out of Castiel's touch, Dean walked ahead of him into the next room without another word. Castiel watched Dean flop himself on the bed face-up and hold the towel to his head. With a sigh, Castiel followed. Beneath all of that machismo, Dean was hurting. It was written all over his face and Castiel could feel himself getting sucked in.

_You can't afford to become attached again, Castiel. You're here to kill—_

Who the fuck was he kidding?

Castiel sighed quietly and unbuttoned the black, pin-striped suit jacket, taking care to neatly fold it and set it aside. The gun was placed on top of it and the cufflinks in one of the pockets. His back was turned toward Dean and Castiel didn't need to look to know that he was staring.

"You've cleaned up well, Cas," Dean whispered.

Castiel couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. "Thank you, Dean." He returned quietly, blue eyes downcast. Compliments were difficult to accept.

"It was your family that did this, you know," Dean said, continuing their conversation.

Castiel turned to look at him and tilted his head. "How do you know?"

"Sammy told me. About a run-in with your brother Gabriel." He pulled the towel away from his head and looked at it for a second before reapplying.

Castiel frowned. "I don't understand. Why would Gabriel have anything to do with Sam?"

"Shit, Cas. I don't know all the details."

"Bullshit, Dean. You're lying to me."

"I don't—"

"Are you meaning to tell me that you have _no idea_ what went on between Sam and my brother, if that's even the case here? _You _who swore it was your job to take care of Sam. That taking care of him was who you were. You knew where that kid was every waking moment of your life and you mean to tell me that you have no idea?"

"Fuck off, Cas."

"Dean—"

"Look. Sammy feared for his life, okay? And if it wasn't you who killed him then it must have been Gabriel. Or someone. I don't know who—that isn't the point." Dean turned a glare on him. "That point is: your family killed my little brother and that's not something I'm going to forgive."

"How do you know for sure—"

"Because—" Dean growled in frustration. "Are you saying that Sammy was lying? Are you saying that _I'm _lying?"

"I think you're just passing blame. You've always hated my family," Castiel returned calmly.

"You've got to trust me—"

"Shouldn't trust run both ways?" Castiel snapped back. "How can I help you—"

"I don't need your help, Cas!"

"Fucking impossible," Castiel said as he threw his hands up. He pointed a finger at him, "I don't know what the hell you're not telling me, but until you convince me otherwise, Dean, my brother didn't kill yours! How does that even make sense? You're talking about a chance meeting that somehow ended up in bloodshed. Unless they knew each other—which… really? They had no association with each other when we were younger. The Winchesters steered clear of my family."

"That's why I'm asking you to trust me, Cas. You don't know the whole story."

"—unless it was some random fucking deal. But then why would Gabriel associate with Sam? He was a no body—" Castiel thought out loud, ignoring Dean altogether. None of it made any sense.

"I see what's going on here," Dean began sharply. "You never liked Sammy. You were always jealous of him. Always jealous of how much attention I paid to him. I can't believe I expected you to give a shit."

_What?_

Castiel rolled his eyes, "You're just drunk."

"Admit it!"

"Admit what, Dean?" Castiel snapped. "That I hated your brother? That I'm somehow happy that he's dead?" His tone softened. "You know none of that is true."

"Bullshit. You don't give a fuck—"

"Of course I do, Dean! I care that you're… heartbroken. I care that you're dying inside. That a part of you has already died." Castiel sighed. "Of course I care.. I know what it feels like to lose a brother." The death of Jimmy still left his soul raw. "If I could help you—"

Dean steeled his jaw and fussed with the towel again. "I'm fine."

Castiel could tell by the tremble in Dean's voice that he was having difficulty dealing with this, that he was barely able to keep his head above water. It pained Castiel to no end to see Dean in so much pain, to realize that he was simply a shell of what he once was. The spark had faded from his eyes, the care-free humor in his voice gone. He wanted nothing more than to comfort Dean, to pick up his pieces. Castiel settled beside Dean on the bed, but didn't touch him.

"You're not," Castiel whispered. "I know you're not. You can't always be the strong one, Dean."

"I said," Dean began, turning a cold glare on him, "I was fine."

Castiel could see tears rimming Dean's green eyes, ready to fall unchecked onto sun-kissed cheeks. He studied every detail of Dean's face; from the dusting of freckles and the rise of his cheekbones to the cut on his forehead. Without thinking, Castiel reached forward to whisk gentle fingers over abused skin. Dean flinched and avoided the touch, tossing yet another glare at him. No matter how hard Castiel tried, he couldn't look away. Dean was simply too beautiful. All Castiel wanted to do was to stare into Dean's soul, read it like words on paper and figure out everything Dean was keeping from him.

"Cas, you know I hate it when you stare at me like that."

"I know," Castiel muttered, eyes downcast as if he had been scolded.

His mind wandered to the news that Sam had been killed. It didn't sit well in his stomach—none of it did. Even more puzzling, and potentially disturbing, was the accusation that one of his family members had done it. Why? What could his family hope to gain from that? Castiel wished right then that Dean would tell him everything. He was left feeling hurt that Dean couldn't trust him, but understood. Without knowing the whole story, Castiel couldn't dwell on the _what _ifs, couldn't begin to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Instead of answers, he came back with memories of the smiling, younger brother that Dean loved so much. Castiel specifically remembered the token that Dean had once given him.

With unsure hands, he lifted the amulet up and over his head. "Dean," Castiel started, wondering why his throat suddenly felt dry and why his stomach fluttered. "I—I hope this will help with the pain." He held out his hands, offering the gift to Dean. "I know this meant a lot to you."

Dean turned a disinterested gaze toward him… and then his green eyes flew wide with surprise. He immediately took it, stared at the necklace in his hands and rubbed a thumb over it affectionately. When Dean finally lifted his head to look at Castiel, his eyes were nearly wet. "You—you kept this?"

Castiel smiled softly and whispered, "I never took it off, Dean."

Piece by piece, Dean began to fall apart right in front of him and Castiel watched his undoing with fascination. He loved the way Dean struggled to keep it together, tried to stop his soul from falling in on itself. The fight for control, the gradual break down of his strong face. All of it… was perfect. His jaw line tensed under his skin and a single tear ran down his face. Castiel's thumb met the second and brushed it away tenderly. Although he loved these moments in which Dean was exposed, Castiel hated to see him so vulnerable. As gentle fingertips soothed his hurts, Dean didn't flinch or back away. Instead, he leaned into the touch while struggling to compose himself. Dean was broken and it left Castiel feeling helpless and raw. Castiel would do anything to comfort him, to soothe his pain.

Dean needed something else.

There was no warning that led to Dean grabbing Castiel's tie, using it to pull him closer and into a desperate kiss. Dean's mouth smothered his and left Castiel with the want to willingly and eagerly give in. He grabbed at the sides of Dean's neck and clung to him, pulled him in hard and crushed their mouths together. He couldn't get close enough, not to Dean, not in this second, not until they occupied the same space. There was barely enough time to breathe. They both had needs and simply couldn't waste a single second.

Dean took the lead, forcing Castiel onto his back while he climbed on top. He straddled Castiel then, the burning pitch of their bodies accentuated when their hips came together. It felt incredible. Castiel couldn't help but let out a gasp and melt into the mattress. He could feel his cock harden, could feel Dean's against his hip to create a heat that was too much to handle. Dean pivoted his hips forward and the rough friction caused Castiel to arch his back in the sheer pleasure of it. Castiel immediately felt guilty and fought to keep his groan tucked under his bottom lip just to deny Dean the satisfaction of his surrender. To keep some semblance of self-control. Castiel fought to remember his boundaries.

Greedy, Dean sent his hand to the hot rise in Castiel's pants and squeezed gently. Castiel gasped as the sensation sent a shudder up his spine. He wanted this, spent nights dreaming about this very thing. But he couldn't allow himself the luxury. It was _wrong_. His anxiety flared again and he felt a tightening in his chest, felt his heart race. For the love of God, this had to stop.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, grabbing at the hand by the wrist.

Castiel's pleading fell on deaf ears, the searching and rubbing fingers undeterred. He couldn't help but raise his hips into the touching. It felt so... fucking good. His heart and mind waged a war between what was and should never be. Castiel had to remember that he had an honorable code to uphold, that he couldn't succumb to his greatest fantasy. It wasn't an option.

"Dean," he said again, trying to force Dean's hand away. "No."

Dean lifted his head. His pupils were blown wide with lust, starving for more than just heavy petting. The smile on his face was almost predatory. Dean never removed his hand, yet the fingers stilled, his mouth ghosting hot kisses over Castiel's lips.

"You're only saying no because you feel you have to." Dean kissed a line to the shell of his ear, nipping at it while rocking his hips forward again, using them to press the hand harder against Castiel's cock. As the euphoria washed over him, Castiel couldn't help but gasp.

Dean's tongue snaked out and grazed the edge of his ear, sending a surge of pure bliss down his neck and into his gut. It left him whimpering and mind numb. Castiel suddenly lost himself in the slow and steady stroke of Dean's fingers, and his hips shot up to meet them. Fuck. As Dean continued his barely-there touching, Castiel considered surrender. It would be so easy to indulge in something they both needed and wanted more than anything else. But Castiel's conscience wouldn't let him rest.

"Dean!" Castiel snapped, grabbing at the hand again. "I can't," his voice softened considerably, tone beseeching.

"I don't fucking care."

His voice was deep, dark like hand-tinted glass. It was powerful and authoritative and the very sound of it made Castiel groan. That was when Castiel stopped resisting, chose instead to enjoy whatever this was. Fuck everything else.

Dean took his relaxation as a subtle invitation, sending his fingers to work again, now free to do whatever they wanted. Castiel turned his head toward Dean, soft lips grazing the sensitive skin at his neck. The earnest, desperate way Dean touched him made Castiel groan. He somehow knew that Dean had to have this, was using sexual contact as his means of escape, to momentarily forget the death of his brother. Dean hadn't changed since they were younger. It pained Castiel that he was being used, but couldn't find the heart to care anymore. In a way, they both needed to escape.

"I know you need this," Castiel whispered into his ear.

Dean shot his eyes upward to glare at him, hand quick to cover his mouth. "Don't."

Castiel knew he had made a mistake. The evidence was written all over Dean's face. With a frown, Dean sat up and looked down at him disapprovingly. Dean would leave him if Castiel didn't act quickly and make amends. There was a necessity to recapture Dean's interest, to placate him—and Castiel was determined to do both. Dean needed this. Hell, Castiel needed this just as much as he did.

Castiel jolted upward to grab at Dean's pale dress shirt, pulling him downward into a kiss that expressed his deepest apology. The poorly-made shirt ripped under the strain, buttons popping to expose skin that Castiel mouthed fervently. Dean didn't respond to any of it and it was in that second that Castiel panicked. Castiel couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him, couldn't help but feel like that boy still hopelessly in love.

"Dean," Castiel implored, whispering the name into wet skin.

Explorative teeth and soft lips tested all of the sensitive areas along Dean's neck and ear, searching for the sweet spot that would lure him back in. When Castiel nipped at his ear, Dean moaned and his breath hitched. Gentle kisses were teased along Dean's jaw line to the hollow point just behind his ear lobe, earning Castiel another groan. Several more kisses like these, pressed deep into his skin, were all Castiel needed. With a growl, Dean gripped Castiel's hands and sent them roughly up and over, pinning them to the bed. Castiel omitted a groan and arched his hips, becoming completely subject to Dean's hot breath on his skin.

Castiel tried to kiss him but, despite his efforts, Dean stayed just out of reach, refusing to satisfy his need. Dean stared at him for several moments, locking green and blue in a world of pent-up aggression and desire. It was with a flush of Castiel's relief that Dean broke the silence.

"You're going to behave and let me do what I want," Dean tightened his fingers on Castiel's wrists, locking them to the bed more forcefully. The swing of his hips came next, hard and corrective. "Aren't you."

"God, yes," Castiel gasped, so aroused he couldn't stand it.

Still pinned, Castiel tried to bridge the gap between them, stretching upward as much as he could in an effort just to taste Dean's mouth. He could feel the warmth of Dean's lips, but couldn't, for the life of him, get to them fully. Dean was still punishing him. Castiel wiggled beneath him, pined for him, would beg if he needed to and felt his libido fully overtake him. He needed Dean now.

Graciously, Dean leaned in, allowing Castiel only partial access of his lips. The inch was taken a mile and Castiel took as much as he could, trying to press mouths together that barely touched. Castiel extended his tongue to lick at Dean's lips, and nearly moaned as Dean sucked at teasingly if only for a second.

"You want this, don't you," Dean whispered, eyes shell-shock wide with want.

"Yes, Dean." Castiel was breathless. "Please."

A smile crawled onto Dean's lips as he let Castiel's wrists go, as if he knew he had let a wild animal out of its pen. It wasn't far from the truth. With a growl, Castiel bolted upward to latch onto Dean, wanting nothing more than to feel him, to taste him. Their lips met again with crushing passion, the kiss all opened-mouthed and tongues, hot and intense. It lasted until Dean grabbed Castiel's hair and pulled hard, forcing him back and down onto the bed with possessive authority. Castiel winced and let out a partial hiss of pain yet reveled in Dean's dominance. The thrill of it excited him to no end.

Dean pulled away from him, leaving Castiel empty without his heat. Castiel couldn't help but reach for him, sending errant fingers along his arm, his hip, anything, that would return just a whisper of warmth back to him. Castiel didn't have to wait for very long. He soon fell slave to Dean's quick hands, to fingers that unfastened dress pants and pulled them down with an impatient tug. His underwear followed suit, exposing Castiel's cock to the air.

Dean turned to grab something from the nightstand and came back to hover over Castiel, knees next to hips, with hands glistening in lubrication. Any insecurity Castiel felt melted away as Dean gripped his cock tight, the closed-circle warmth of his hand sending electricity up Castiel's spine. The noise from his throat sounded more like a strangled gasp than anything else. Dean had barely started and it was a miracle that Castiel hadn't come yet with contact alone. He had waited far too long for this.

Still hovering, Dean leaned in to trail kisses along his collarbone as the hand went to work, sliding up and down the shaft slowly and methodically. Castiel closed his eyes and arched his head back, groaning while his hips bucked, greedy for friction. Everything felt tight and wet and—_fuck_—incredible all at the same time. Dean teased the flesh at his neck, nibbling and sometimes biting. And the rhythm between hand and cock quickened, sending jolts of euphoria throughout Castiel's body.

Castiel writhed on the bed, hips twitching and thrusting upward into Dean's hand. His breath became labored, indicating how very close he was, and Dean took it as cue to slow down, switching to long and hard strokes. As his hand slid up Castiel's cock, Dean rubbed a thumb over the sensitive head, fingertip paying attention to all the details on the down stroke—ridges and indentation between crown and shaft. Castiel whipped his head back with the arch of his back, groaning and kneading his hands into the mattress. His gasp was other-worldly, his cry something between a curse and Dean's name. Dean continued to unravel him, adept in touching and kissing and everything else that made Castiel scream inside for release. Castiel's moans were so fucking loud that he barely recognized them as his at all.

Dean kissed a line from Castiel's neck to his—oh, _God_. Castiel moaned loudly as the shell of his ear fell victim to teeth, hurling shock-waves up and through him. He was almost there now, so close, his needy panting shooting out hot torrents of air against Dean's neck. Dean's pace quickened and Castiel fucked up into his hand wildly, felt himself just at the edge of his orgasm. As Dean tightened his grip, as moved his hand even quicker, harder, all Castiel could do was—

"Dean.."

—call out his name breathlessly. Dean inhaled sharply at his ear, let it out loosely in a earthy groan that sent Castiel right over the edge. With the glorious arch of his back, Castiel fell apart, crying out as he came, as all of it shook him to the core. Dean stroked him through the release and Castiel could feel his stomach grow hot with it, filthy and abundant. In its aftermath, Castiel was left ragged, wrecked and out of breath, struggling with his return to reality.

Castiel thought he had come to kill Dean Winchester with all the confidence in the world. He realized then that it was arrogance, hubris, and it was these things that had led to his downfall.

**Built on Lies**

"_A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent."_

—_William Blake_

_**Springfield, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

A relapse. That was all it had been. A momentary lapse of judgment and self-control. Dean had slipped under his skin and Castiel had willingly indulged himself in his drug. The high had been.. exhilarating, everything he had wanted it to be and more. But like with any drug, the high had come with the inevitable crash—a period of withdrawal that had left Castiel feeling ashamed. He promised himself that he'd never fail again, would never have to feel that shame. Because he'd never _give in _to Dean again. It had been a simple misstep—that was all. Castiel was in control of his addiction. Completely and utterly in control… fuck.

After days of berating himself over his own stupidity, Castiel started looking for answers, a distraction. He couldn't believe that his family had been responsible for Sam's murder. There would have been no sense in it. Castiel felt sure of his family's innocence yet he couldn't shake the distant fear in the back of his mind. Thankfully, he knew of one person who could unravel the mystery and abolish all of his worries. Someone… resourceful.

Castiel waited for the phone call to be connected. The quiet hotel lobby stretched out behind him, void of the usual flair of the wealthy; people who, like everyone else, now fought to merely survive in difficult times. The only other living soul in the hotel inconveniently stood behind him, in line to use the public telephone. Castiel sent a cold glare over his shoulder at the man, tone sharp. "Private conversation."

The man frowned, "I don't care. I need—"

Castiel wouldn't hear it. His fingers were quick to draw back his black pea coat, revealing the grip of the .38 Colt in his waistband. The man's eyes grew wide and he hurried away, leaving Castiel in the peace and privacy he needed.

Although it was an absolute necessity, it was with reluctance that he dialed home. Castiel should be calling to fulfill Lucifer's mandated one-week check-in that was required on all jobs—a deadline he had missed by five days. Too much had distracted him, had thrown him off his meticulous modus operandi. Until now, he had never failed to check in. Castiel knew Lucifer would be irritated, but didn't intend to speak with him. He was calling solely for the purpose of speaking to Balthazar, to find out what information his brother had uncovered.

The phone continued to ring. It was common for the family to gather together on Sunday after church. Surely someone would pick up—

"Hello?" The voice on the other end said.

"Rachel," Castiel greeted evenly. "I need to speak with Balthazar."

"Castiel! Where are you! Where have you been—"

Castiel pulled the handset away from his ear and rolled his eyes, waiting for Rachel's droning to die out. Unfortunately, she was still talking by the time the handset met his ear again.

"We've been worried—"

"Rachel. I'm not going to tell you again," he intoned darkly. "Put Balthazar on. Now."

Rachel went quiet for a minute before shouting for Balthazar. The other side of the phone went silent before he heard his brother's familiar voice.

"Cassie?"

"Balthazar. I—"

"We've been worried sick about you," Balthazar started.

"I heard," Castiel responded quickly. "What did—"

Balthazar interrupted again, lighting Castiel's frustrations. "Lucifer is going to want to talk to you. He's going to want—"

"Not yet, Balthazar—"

"He's quite irritated with you—" Balthazar began.

"Would you please shut the fuck up for just one second," Castiel hissed.

There was a long pause.

"I see that stick is farther up your ass than usual," Balthazar said dryly, a touch offended.

Castiel sighed. "It's been a rough couple of days." And that was as close to an apology as Balthazar would get. "Did you find out any information?

"Sure, sure. And it wasn't easy, you know. This family guards dirty laundry particularly well."

"I appreciate your help, Balthazar. You know that," Castiel returned.

"Oh, absolutely. Just be aware that you're in my debt for this."

Castiel's patience was wearing thin. "Noted. What did you find out?"

"Honestly? Nothing _too_ important. Sam Winchester has been dead as of several months ago."

Castiel didn't respond.

"Something about this boy's obligation to the family. Seems he was in debt to Lucifer for whatever reason and his big brother bailed him out. Took on that debt as his own. Sounds sweet, doesn't it? Sort of makes you wish _we _had a functional family," Balthazar laughed dryly. "Apparently, big brother—"

"Dean," Castiel interjected without thinking.

"Whomever," Balthazar said dismissively. "Apparently, he failed on a job and got his little brother beat to pieces, as a sort of punishment. The younger Winchester was killed because the older one refused to work for the Don after the beating. It's all truly a big, unnecessary mess. Almost a pity, really."

Castiel frowned. How the fuck did he miss all this? Had it been while he was away on a job? After Charles had died, Castiel had taken it upon himself to help Lucifer with whatever he needed at the time—if only to escape all of the family drama. Had he known any of this, that Dean had struck a deal, that Sam had been in trouble…

"Obviously all of this happened while I was on assignment," Castiel thought out loud, fussing with his tie. It was on backwards. Goddamn it. Was he completely falling apart?

There was a pause. "And why does that matter? In fact, why do you need to know all this? You've never asked questions before—"

"This… target is more difficult to find and I need all the information I can get. Especially information on any relatives. I've already explained this to you," Castiel left it at that.

"Mm. Well, this fellow has no living relatives. His uncle died of pneumonia and his parents were killed. Seems like this boy has had a stroke of bad luck, wouldn't you say?"

Castiel couldn't even saying anything before—

"Except that it isn't luck at all. It seems that Lucifer has had quite a dislike for the Winchesters… nearly eradicating all of them."

"What?" Castiel didn't understand.

"Oh, yes. The parents, the younger brother and now—"

"The parents?" Castiel couldn't hide his shock.

"Isn't that what I just said? Yes, Cas. The parents. They were killed by Azazel—I thought you knew this."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Castiel snapped.

"It was big news back then. Quite the scandal in our little family," Balthazar almost sounded pleased.

"I was a child, dealing with my own problems. Not all of us thrive on gossip," Castiel growled out. "What happened?"

Balthazar snipped back just as quickly. "So testy." He sighed. "Again, more contracts gone wrong. And more sacrifice which seems to be a running theme with those Winchesters. The father and mother sacrificed themselves in order to spare the boys. Azazel burned the house down under Lucifer's orders."

"Shit."

A pause.

"Is there something more to this Dean Winchester?" He went silent for a second. "Are you in trouble? You're acting strangely."

Castiel didn't answer nor did he have to. Balthazar was no longer listening, talking to someone on his side of the phone.

"Lucifer wants to speak to you," Balthazar came back to say. "Cassie, don't do anything stupid."

Not even a second went by before Castiel did just that, quickly hanging up the headset and disconnecting the phone call. The last thing he wanted to do was to speak to Lucifer. Castiel needed to digest this new information and, more importantly, decide how to tell Dean. How to tell him that Castiel's family ruined his life.

Ruined _their_ lives.

**Losing Control **

"_Give me your heart and your soul. I'm not breaking down._

_I'm breaking out. Last chance to lose control."_

— _Muse, Hysteria_

_**Springfield, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

As impossible as it had been, Castiel had managed to stay away from Dean for several days. The news that his family had been involved with the deaths of Dean's parents and brother.. stunned him. He just.. couldn't believe it. Castiel felt betrayed, torn down, and all of it was their fault. It had been because of his family that Dean had to move away, that Castiel had started down that lonely road all those years ago. It had been because of them that he had suffered through the painful process of forgetting Dean Winchester. To stop his heart from whispering Dean's name. Castiel realized now that he was a shell of what he once was because of his fucking family. It made him feel angry, reckless, like he didn't care about anything else in the world.

Except for Dean.

Castiel had always cared about him and that would never change. But he wouldn't allow himself to get sucked into Dean's world again. He couldn't. All Castiel needed to do was tell him everything and leave. There would be no happy ending for them. They didn't belong together and Castiel had to believe that. Still, the thought of never seeing Dean again after this weighed on him as he walked up the familiar steps. This would be it—the last time they would ever speak to each other. And although it was for the best, Castiel couldn't help but feel a sting of despair.

_For the best.._

Castiel opened and stepped through the unlocked door. He was barely able to breathe in the apartment's stale air before Dean was on him, kissing his lips and pawing at him as if he hadn't seen Castiel in years. Dean crushed him against the door and cupped his face, sending his tongue through lips and into Castiel's waiting mouth. Beneath Dean's passion, Castiel was so fucking ready to just.. give in. He wondered why he had to struggle at all, but knew that he should. He knew without a doubt that he couldn't go back to that.. world; a place in which the only thing that mattered was Dean. It was destructive and dangerous and—

Castiel couldn't help himself from groaning into that kiss, from completely melting into it. He had forgotten how.. addictive Dean's kisses were, how desperate he had been for Dean's warmth. Castiel was falling victim to his drug when all he wanted to do was escape and finally be free. He couldn't help it. As Dean continued to kiss him like this, so goddamn intensely, Castiel couldn't remember how to stop loving him. Suddenly, he didn't want to.

Castiel gave in with a fiery desperation that he didn't know he had. Dean's soft lips and strong hands were so incredibly convincing, so warm and.. _right_. Everything was perfect. When he was with Dean, Castiel felt.. _whole_. And being so close to him, in his arms, kissing him, somehow dissolved all of his fears and guilt. Castiel just.. didn't care anymore. Fuck his family and the strictures of the _Cosa Nostra_. Fuck feeling guilty for what he was. Castiel didn't want to think about his family. He didn't want to think about Dean's parents, Sam, or any of it. He had made a decision.

Castiel was going to fuck Dean until his own soul no longer hurt.

The whirlwind of undressing sent clothes and shoes to the far-stretched corners of the room, laying bare the hot perfection of skin-on-skin. It felt incredible; Dean's nakedness against his, uninhibited and raw. Castiel slid a hand up and down Dean's body, marveling at it through touch while the desperate '_I can't get enough of you_' kissing turned slow and hard—the same tempo of Dean's rolling hips. Castiel slammed his head back into the door and gasped, exposing his throat to Dean's lips. Dean mouth at him, sucked, bit him with such intensity that Castiel barely had the mind to think at all.

Castiel groaned and pressed a hand at the small of Dean's back to bring their lower bodies even closer, increasing the friction. The heat their cocks made while rubbing together was—_goddamn it_. Castiel's appreciative moan shot out of his throat so hard and so fast that it was amazing he could still breathe. Castiel knew he couldn't take much more of this before he'd explode. He needed a distraction, a break from the constant rubbing. Castiel realized how very difficult it would be to pull away.

So he didn't.

Instead, Castiel took the lead, grabbing and turning to slam Dean against the door. The kiss they shared was bruising, opened mouths allowing tongues to resume where lips had given up. Castiel wanted nothing more than to make Dean moan and beg, to let him know who was in control. Sliding down Dean's body, Castiel soothed his skin with tiny, gentle kisses. His affections turned rough then, teeth biting at Dean's hipbone to earn him a half-hearted hiss, a noise that died down and ended in a groan. The roughness inspired a hair-grab-and-hold at the back of Castiel's head, the pull just enough to be corrective. Castiel moaned with it, liked his pleasure with pain, and licked the crown of Dean's cock. It reacted with a leap of excitement and Dean groaned, hips springing forward with the want of more—something that Castiel continued to deny him.

Castiel traded kisses with the skin all around Dean's swollen cock, nuzzling it with his nose ever so often just to keep it interested, licking it even less. Dean's frustration became apparent and he rocked his hips forward again, as if that would convince Castiel to take the initiative. It didn't. Castiel still only kissed lightly, paying attention to anything but the erection that waited for him. He wanted Dean to beg for it.

Dean didn't appreciate it. With a hiss, Dean jerked Castiel's head harshly, making him whimper.

"Don't tease me."

The warning was heavy, growled out in the deep-gravel voice that made Castiel shiver with want. So forceful and demanding were his hands, guiding Castiel's lips to the tip of his cock. Dean's dominance was all Castiel needed to comply.

Castiel took in all of him, tongue unashamed and swirling around the length of it, wetting it before the slip-and-slide of mouth and cock began. His efforts were met with the up-thrust of hips as Dean gasped and tugged at his hair. Dean didn't need to instruct him anymore. Castiel took to it like a filthy whore, all tight-lipped and enthusiastic as if it were the last thing he'd ever do.

"Holy fuck, Cas," Dean whispered, throwing his head back into the door.

His mouth was too flush with hot skin to manage anything other than a groan. He swallowed Dean down as far as he could, slipping up and down the shaft with lips and hand, together and in sync. Dean groaned above him, kneaded fingers into hair and shot his hips forward again just to get another inch out of Castiel's mouth. Castiel let Dean fuck into him and could taste how pleased he was on the back of his tongue. He wanted more of it, to have that validation and savor its thickness. Taking control again, Castiel slid his mouth back, teasing in rapid succession on the head of Dean's cock only. Another head-meets-door above him, Dean's loud moaning a delight to his ears. But it wasn't enough. Castiel wanted more from Dean, wanted to hear him cry out while being sucked dry. He angled Dean's cock upward, dragging the head of it against the roof of his mouth, and then further in to the opening of his throat. It was a constant pressure that was accompanied with hard sucking, a combination that made Dean call out, loud and dirty.

"Oh, fuck me."

His groans were abundant, honest, and made Castiel seek out more of them by sucking as hard and as quickly as he could. Castiel could stay here forever, licking into the slit and sending Dean to quiver beneath the onslaught of his devotion. In that moment, Castiel worshipped him as if he were a god, as if his tithes and hymns were how well he could swallow down and suck. Dean's groans pitched, were heavier now and Castiel knew he was close, could feel it in the way his cock pulsed needfully in his mouth, the way Dean's hips moved. And if this was all they could do—

"Shit," Dean groaned long and lazy groan before pulling Castiel back. "Stop, stop, stop."

Castiel whimpered as he was pulled to his feet by his hair, putting him perfectly in line for a kiss that was all but bruising. Dean searched for his own taste and groaned with it, making Castiel weak in the knees with how forceful and passionate it was. He found himself sprawled on the bed then, having been pushed back recklessly by a man with an intense hunger in his eyes. For whatever reason, it made Castiel retreat and he used his elbows to move away, pressing his back flat against the headboard. Dean immediately grabbed him by the ankles and jerked him into a prone, lying position, sliding on top like he belonged there, like Castiel was _his_. Dean couldn't have been more right.

Everything moved with certain fluidity now, hot bodies and cocks gliding together to create a jig-saw puzzle of greedy flesh and ecstasy. Castiel pressed up into Dean's hips, moaning his name and earning himself another hard thrust. Dean groaned with him and it was deep, heavy panting rich with how much he needed and wanted this. He could feel Dean pulse with anticipation, his body tremble as he lifted a hand to Castiel's lips. As prompted, Castiel took Dean's fingers into his mouth, wetting them, treating each one with a deep swallow-down and slow ease-back like he had with Dean's cock. Those slickened fingers found Castiel's entrance, rubbing and teasing so slowly and so sensually that he couldn't help but groan, couldn't help but jerk his hips down onto them. One by one, three fingers made it inside, each one bringing its own level of discomfort and excitement. Castiel hadn't had anyone since… he didn't want to think of it, couldn't as Dean spread him wide with his fingers. The intrusion nearly hurt even though Dean was being so gentle. Castiel hardly recognized it was Dean at all. He had never been like this before; so affectionate and loving.

After a few strokes, Dean's fingers fell away to spread Castiel's thighs wide. Castiel moaned with his readiness as Dean applied more lubrication to his hands, slickened his cock, and fell into position. The head of him was right there—and he teased, oh how he teased, just barely touching, the temptation of it so close that it made Castiel squirm for more. He tried to inch down lower, yearned for it, but Dean pulled back just enough to press so very lightly at his hole, leaving Castiel breathless and whimpering. He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take the anticipation and teasing, and resorted to begging for it.

"Please. I—I want you…" He arched his back gloriously, throat exposed and voice broken by how much he had to have Dean right then. "…I need you."

Dean's groaned deeply into his neck. ".. so fucking beautiful right now."

Dean didn't waste any time and Castiel could feel Dean slide into him gradually, slowly, their burning pitch intensifying how they eased into one another. It still didn't diminish the pain of the stretch, the way his muscles instinctively clamped down on the intrusion and burned. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders and whimpered, slightly soothed by how passionately Dean kissed him.

Slow, gentle strokes allowed Castiel to get accustomed to it all again, pain giving way to all the pleasure in the world. Castiel mimicked the roll of Dean's hips, his own body like a wave, cresting to catch the friction of Dean's stomach against his cock. Nothing could stop the filthy moans that fell from his mouth, each one swallowed down by Dean's hungry lips. It felt so.. incredible the way they moved together, as if they were meant for this. But there was a need for more—something harder, faster.

Castiel's greedy hands surfaced at Dean's hips to draw him in, jerking him closer, silently communicating how much he wanted to be fucked. Dean didn't need to be told twice. He held his breath and gripped the headboard as Dean straightened himself upright, grabbing at one of his hips for leverage. The other hand was braced against the wall.. or gripping the headboard—he didn't care to notice, couldn't. Not when Dean began to thrust into him rough and hard, every movement of his hips bringing him closer. The euphoria that coursed through Castiel's body was indescribable and it nearly dulled his vision. Yet nothing could hide the beauty of Dean. His body was perfect, rigid muscle turning to water as he moved, all fluid and graceful lines. And while Dean pumped into him hard, Castiel arched his back again and spread his legs wide, hips tilted up like he was a cat in fucking heat. The position enabled Dean's cock to hit that spot every single time and, every time it did, Castiel unraveled just a little bit more, crying out in absolute luxury. Dean never stopped, never even slowed, the power of his dominance radiating out of him like a thousand suns. Castiel sacrificed his dignity for this… so slick and wet and utterly—

"Feels so... fucking incredible," Castiel groaned out.

Castiel felt Dean's hand on his face, felt his thumb brush against the lower lip. He greedily took it into his mouth and sucked on it hard, nipped at it, savored Dean's heavy moan. Castiel arched his back again and spread his thighs wider, hips shooting up to accept every single inch Dean had to give him. Dean continued deep and hard, ratcheting up the rhythm to one long, drawn-out stroke followed by three short, rough ones. It made Castiel cry out and he could feel it on the edge of his senses, so beautiful and bright, mounting fast and hot. He wanted more, needed more… just there... so close. Castiel couldn't even hear Dean now, his own groans and whimpers so loud. It was obscene, the generous slip and slide of their bodies, the hard fucking that Castiel had always wanted. But it wasn't enough.

"Scopami..." Castiel's sudden groan shattered him, stole his breath away. "… più forte!"

And it was as if Dean knew, driving into him harder, fucking him like the world was going to end any minute. Castiel could feel it, right there, and he was on the brink of it—

"Dean…" Castiel's voice broke with his name. "Dean…"

Dean grabbed Castiel's cock and began to stroke it, hard and quick. Castiel called out, could feel Dean pulse inside of him and knew that he was close. He didn't need to open his eyes to know… how wrecked Dean was. He could feel it in the way that Dean touched him, the way his fingers kneaded at his hip. The way his voice sounded; rich and broken, yet smooth like dark glass.

"Come for me.."

Castiel couldn't deny him and fell to his god like this, mouth agape with moans and whimpers, with Dean's name fast and loose on his lips. And then he felt it; his coming and coming undone. Furious and powerful, flooding over him and drowning him in everything that felt good. With a gasp, he tipped his chin up to release a long, drawn-out groan that was truly freeing. It shattered everything he knew, and all the anguish of being without Dean for all those years slipped away. He felt the shackles of the _Cosa Nostra's_ strictures fall to pieces. Finally, they were together. And in that moment, they were infinite. Boundless. One. Breathing the same air and sharing the same soul.

And he felt free.

Castiel choked back his relief and buried his face into Dean's neck as he came down to lay flush against him. In Dean's arms, he felt so liberated, so safe. And as Castiel trembled, as everything he felt crashed in on him, Dean held him gently and brushed fingers through his hair.

"I've got you."


	4. Part IV

**Falling Down**

"_Cruel is the strife of brothers."_

—_Aristotle_

_**Springfield, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

The clouds were dark and ominous overhead as Castiel walked down the street. How he had been roped into buying groceries at the local market, he didn't know. He held the paper bags to his chest and made his way toward the apartment while his mind drifted. The past few days had been nothing short of.. paradise. He had fallen hard for Dean all over again, having ignored his better judgment. It was as if nothing had changed from all those years ago. Once again, they had come together, had gotten lost in each other. Nothing else had mattered.

Paradise hadn't been without its tribulations, he admitted. With a sigh, Castiel stepped into the apartment building and began his ascendance up the grand staircase. Trouble had come when Castiel had confessed everything; his family's hand in Sam's murder, the death of his parents.. all of it. Dean had raged on and on about his need for revenge, his want to eradicate the entire family; his version of eye-for-an-eye. After having taken away his alcohol, and after he had sobered, Dean hadn't mentioned it again. And Castiel had never brought it up. He never wanted to think about it again. The only thing Castiel wanted to do was live in the moment. Enjoy every single second he had with Dean as if it were his last. As if their time was running out.

Castiel had spent that time fucking Dean, to play out his aggressions and frustrations. To make love to him, bleeding out every ounce of devotion and passion he had. It had left him sore, vulnerable and.. scared. Dean was dangerous, capable of completely destroying him. Everything changed when he was with Dean. Things that Castiel had thought were important had lost their value; his family, his code, and even his own appearance. Castiel looked down at himself then, to the loose tie around his neck, and to the way the top buttons of his shirt were undone. Had he been foolish to let Dean back into his life?

He didn't have time to answer.

At the top of the stairs, Castiel could see the apartment, door slightly ajar as if it had been left opened… or kicked in. His reaction was immediate, changing from a fool in love to what he was meant to be—an assassin, ruthless and quick, who killed first and never bothered to ask questions. Castiel carefully and quietly set the paper grocery bags on the floor and withdrew his dual .38 Colts. Ignoring the soreness in his body, Castiel moved fluidly through the hall, could feel the finger-mark bruises shiver along his skin as it prickled in anticipation. The apartment seemed unbearably quiet from this distance. Only creeping closer revealed the true gravity of the situation.

Silhouetted against the window's light stood a familiar figure… but it wasn't Dean. The physique didn't match and Castiel had studied Dean's body long enough to know the difference, down to the most miniscule of details. This intruder was too thin, hair too long and, when the man finally looked toward the door, Castiel could see that the face was too narrow, round eyes brown and intense. No, not Dean. But his brother Gabriel, smile large and amused… despite the bruises and cuts all over his face. The apartment's interior was also in disarray; furniture toppled and broken, personal belongings strewn everywhere. There was no sign of Dean.

Castiel gripped the .38s tightly and stepped inside—

"Ah, brother," Gabriel greeted cheerfully.

—before throwing out Dean's name as if to search for him, like a mother bear calling for her cub.

"Cas," Dean croaked weakly. The voice came from behind the bed's high footboard.

At this angle, Castiel couldn't seen Dean, but could hear him. Internally, Castiel was relieved, but he never relaxed his muscles, blue eyes so cold, so angry and set evenly on Gabriel. His guns were aimed directly at his brother in case he made the wrong move.

"It's been weeks, hasn't it? We've been worried about you," Gabriel oozed, all too charming and snake-like.

"What are you doing here, Gabriel?" Castiel hissed.

"Now, now. I don't feel quite comfortable talking to you while you're packing," Gabriel tilted his head to the side, eyeing him up and down. "Are you compensating for something? Maybe I should ask your little toy over here."

Castiel frowned.

"Cassie…" Gabriel drawled out the nickname, loose and long over several syllables. "Throw them over here or I'll make lover boy's brains look like momma's spaghetti."

Castiel narrowed his eyes dangerously in silent refusal.

In response, Gabriel shrugged and aimed his gun toward Dean. The Mafioso didn't hesitate in firing his own gun first, sending a bullet to sail directly over Gabriel's shoulder. It missed him narrowly and Gabriel yelped in surprise, shock written all over his face.

"You.. motherfucker," Gabriel growled, grabbing at his shoulder. He peeled his hand away to inspect for any damage. There was none. "I wasn't going to kill him, Cas. Not yet," Gabriel hissed.

"And you're not _going _to kill him, Gabriel."

"I will if you don't send those fucking guns over here like I told you to," Gabriel nearly grinned. "You don't wanna test me, bro. I haven't killed anything in weeks. I'm itchin' for the chance."

Castiel focused on every aspect of his brother's demeanor and body language to determine what he was truly facing here. They stared at each other, standing off in a stalemate of wills. Although Castiel had always been the better marksman, Gabriel was.. the crazier of the two. Castiel didn't want to take the risk. Reluctantly, after another second of calculation, Castiel sent the twin .38s airborne to land onto the bed. They were snatched up and deposited on the nightstand near Gabriel and far away from both himself and Dean.

"I am so glad we could all get together like this," Gabriel commented off-handedly. "So, you two. When's the wedding?"

"Why the fuck are you here?" Castiel snapped impatiently.

Gabriel twisted his face into a pout. "Am—am I not invited?" He stuck a hand deep into his pocket—

Castiel tensed.

—and pulled out a candy bar, unwrapping it before chewing on its end obscenely. "Mmeh. I had nothing to wear anyway."

Castiel rolled his eyes, "Cut the shit, Gabriel!"

Gabriel ignored him, "Cas, I didn't figure you for a fruit. The signs though—" He wiggled a finger at him. "—they were there. So neat and trim all the time. I should have known."

Castiel grit his teeth.

"I guess we should be thankful that momma and poppa died before they found out. They would have been very disappointed to learn that they had let a queer into the family."

"Fuck you," Castiel hissed.

"Now _that _would be awkward. Sorry to burst your bubble, Cas, but I'm not one to like cock much."

Castiel could barely keep his anger under control, fists clenched at his sides.

"Why are you so grumpy? Hasn't lover boy loosened you up? Obviously not good enough. You still have that stick lodged firmly up your ass. I thought for sure you had traded it for something else." Another Gabriel-esque shit-eating grin.

"Fuck you," Dean squawked.

Gabriel stopped his chewing long enough to look annoyed and spare Dean a corrective kick.

"Gabriel!" Castiel called out just as Dean groaned in pain.

"Then stop your dog from barking," Gabriel snapped.

Castiel tried to calm his nerves. He had no power in this situation and, as much as he hated it, had to be compliant—for Dean. He would do anything to keep him out of harm's way. Gabriel posed a threat and he couldn't bear to lose Dean… not again.

Gabriel chewed loudly, "So, to answer your question." He swallowed and licked his lips. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. Your sweetheart was kind enough to let me in and we got t'talkin'. Seems we both knew the same someone. Have you heard this story, Cas? About his brother? I sure had a lot of fun killing that one."

"You fucking dick," Dean groaned brokenly.

Gabriel stopped his chewing again and motioned toward Dean, cutting Castiel a side-long glance. "You found yourself a mouthy one. I'm sure that helps with your... activities. Hopefully, he knows how to keep his lips tight for more than just your dick. I wouldn't want to cut out that pretty little tongue of his because he talked too fucking much." Gabriel finished off his candy and threw the wrapper to the ground. "Anyway. You're just in time to hear the best part, Cas."

Castiel rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't look so bored. I promise to make my story interesting," Gabriel said, a touch annoyed. "God, you're so rude." The brother sighed with a huff, then continued.

"While that lumbering giant was dying—and you really wouldn't believe how affective slitting someone's throat is until you've tried it," Gabriel laughed at himself with the snap of his fingers. "Anywho. While he was dying, he couldn't quite whisper his brother's name like he wanted to. It came out all…" His face screwed up disgustedly. "…garbled and bloody. Like…" Gabriel began to imitate the dying Sam. "De..a..n.. Dea..an.." Amused, Gabriel chuckled before immediately growing serious and straight-faced. "Sad, really."

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" Dean roared.

Gabriel leaned in and cupped his own ear, "I'm sorry. What? I can't hear you over the sound of…" And that was when Gabriel launched another devastating kick toward Dean, like punishing a puppy. He heard Dean cry out in pain.

"Gabriel!" Castiel shouted.

"What! I'm being friendly."

Castiel hissed, "What do you want from us!"

"Cas. I'm hurt. I thought you knew," Gabriel feigned a pained expression. "I'm here to kill your boyfriend. Particularly because you have a conflict of interest and can't fucking do it." He sighed dramatically. "Look. Because I'm the better brother here, I'll offer you a deal—"

"I don't want your—"

"Cas. Please. Hear me out. For your brother?" He feigned another pout.

Castiel didn't respond.

"All you have to do is kill this piece of shit and all will be forgiven. We'll all forget that you're a pansy and you can come home and live a _normal _life. Sound fair?" His next look to Castiel was level and pointed. "For the family."

Castiel didn't have the heart to respond.

"Well? What do you say?"

Emotional pain flickered over Castiel's face, "Gabriel. Please."

"Is it _really_ that difficult? It's not like you love him."

Castiel cast his eyes downward.

"Do—do you love him, Cas?" Gabriel asked, angling his head as if he wanted to catch those downcast eyes.

Castiel sighed heavily, "Gabriel."

Gabriel clucked his tongue. "Well, shit. You're farther gone than I thought. How disappointing." He shook his head sadly. "All right. Then there's really only one other way to solve this." He raised the gun in line with Dean. "Let me do the honors—"

There was a sudden commotion and Dean must have moved, tackled him—something. In that second, Gabriel called out and lunged backward, away from him, completely distracted. Castiel had started moving immediately, launching himself cleanly on and then off the bed. Gabriel hadn't truly recovered from Dean's attack, tried to aim the gun at Castiel—but it was too late. His brother never had the chance to squeeze off the shot. Gabriel was tackled immediately, slammed against the wall, and dragged into a heap of struggling limbs and egos for control of the gun. Castiel proved to be the stronger of the two, wrenching the weapon away before pistol-whipping Gabriel into unconsciousness.

"Cas," Dean whispered weakly behind him.

Castiel shoved the handgun into the waistband of his pants and withdrew from his prone brother. Rushed steps brought him to Dean's side and he took the utmost care in grabbing him and hoisting him to his feet. His beautiful face was bloody and bruised.

"Dean," Castiel brushed a finger over a cheekbone. "I'm so sorry."

Dean tensed and averted his face from the touch. "You didn't do this, Cas."

Castiel didn't have a chance to respond. Dean went for the gun, surprisingly quick for someone so badly beaten. Quicker, Castiel grabbed his hand and Dean struggled against the vice-like hold on his wrist.

"Dean."

"Cas," he breathed heavily. "You know I have to do this."

Castiel tightened his jaw, "You're asking me to let you murder my brother."

Dean tried to jerk his wrist free. He was unsuccessful. "No. I'm just asking you to look the other way."

"Dean," Castiel pleaded.

"Cas," Dean said weakly. Their eyes locked and Castiel could see the pain there. "Sammy," he whispered as if that was all the explanation Castiel ever needed. In truth, Sam meant nothing to him. If it were only about Sam… but it wasn't. To Castiel, it was all about Dean. Castiel knew how much Dean loved his brother, how brightly his need for revenged burned. If anyone had killed Dean, wouldn't he want the same type of justice? Still..

"I—I can't let you kill him," Castiel said, voice broken. "Please, Dean."

"Just.. let go of the gun, Cas."

Castiel stared into those green eyes for a long time. It would be so easy to let go, to let Dean have what he wanted. To have the revenge he thought he needed. Castiel didn't have to make that choice. With considerable strength, Dean successfully wrenched the gun away from him and turned toward Gabriel. Castiel should have fought back, should have gripped the gun harder—

"Dean!"

The shot rang out.

His heart ached as he spun around abruptly, turning his back to the aftermath of the cruel... needless murder. Castiel felt like the executioner without holding the gun; the orchestrator to Gabriel's death without having actually killed him. A tidal wave of guilt washed over him.

"Let's finish this," he heard Dean say.

Castiel turned slowly, fixing Dean with a confused look. He backed away from the sea of blood that oozed toward him. "W—what? Finish this? Finish what? This is the resolution you were looking for."

"Not all of it," Dean brushed past him.

"Dean," Castiel caught his wrist again, whirled him around with more force than intended. Dean winced and tried to pull away. "Dean. What are you planning to do?" Revelation struck his face. "Are you—"

"Goddamn it, Cas. Those fucking pigs killed my entire family! Destroyed my fucking life! Destroyed ours. They ripped us apart! Doesn't that piss you off? Doesn't it make you angry to think that, if they hadn't done this to us, that we'd be in a different place? That we'd be happy? I can't just go on with my life, knowing that they're out there, living their fucked up, perfect lives. I won't."

"Dean. I—"

"Cas! For fuck's sake," Dean jerked his hand free. "You're either with me or you're not. It's that fucking simple."

Castiel flinched, "And… if I'm not?"

Dean clenched his jaw, "I can't let you stand in my way."

The response hit him like a truck, rocking him back a step. _Would Dean..? _He couldn't keep his thought in check. "You'd just—"

_Kill me?_

Dean didn't respond and turned away from him instead. Castiel stared at him for a long time, frozen in his shock. He didn't know what to do or what to say. After everything they had _been_ in the last few days—and he'd just.. throw it all away? Still stunned, he barely registered that Dean had started dressing himself, pulling on his six-buttoned vest and suit jacket. Castiel barely had any time at all to realize that.. Dean was _leaving_.

"Dean..?"

Dean grabbed his gun and moved toward the door, never once responding to him. Castiel tried to grab at him, to touch him as if it were the last time. To try and somehow stop Dean from walking out of his life. Dean shrugged him off, refused to even _look_ at him. He flinched when the door slammed shut.

Numb.. didn't even begin to describe how he felt.

**End of Time**

"_Our time is running out... How did it come to this?"_

—_Muse, Time is Running Out_

_**Aurora, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

Castiel thought he had time. Time to mourn his brother's death, to deal with the guilt. He didn't think that Dean would act so irrationally or so.. quickly. He thought he had time to stop Dean, to calm him down.

Clearly, time had run out.

Back in Springfield, Castiel had done as much as he could have for Gabriel. No funeral. He had no choice but to quickly bless the body and hide it where it couldn't be found—at the bottom of a lake; a proper send-off among made men. Afterward, he had prepared himself for the worst before hopping a train to Aurora. Castiel had known that Dean would act stupidly and recklessly in the name of revenge. And because he was a day's travel ahead of him, Castiel knew that Dean would be in deep shit by the time he had gotten there. He couldn't have been more right.

Fucking Dean.

The gentle hum of his car died as he switched off the ignition. From across the street, the ristorante seemed darker than the night's sky, curtains drawn over the large glass window to prevent anyone from seeing inside. He knew Dean was in there. Dead or alive though, he didn't know.

Anxiety and dread left him dizzy. Regret and a preemptive sense of loss kept him cold. Castiel lit a cigarette and inhaled the dark, rich smoke, savoring it in his lungs as if it were the last breath he'd ever take. Nothing could settle his nerves yet he found some solace knowing he wasn't alone. The quiet fidgeting in the backseat broke the silence in the car's cabin.

"How do I keep getting myself in fucked up situations like this," Balthazar whispered. "I blame you entirely."

Balthazar sat in the backseat of the car, armed with one of Castiel's precious .38 Colts. Castiel didn't acknowledge him and instead exhaled another puff of smoke.

"What are we doing here, Cas?" Balthazar asked.

"Don't ask questions. Your only priority is to get _him_ out of there." Because, for Castiel, it wasn't a question of '_if' _Dean was alive_._ It was simply that he '_was'_. "Don't stop for anything or anyone else. Not even me. Do you understand?"

"Cassie—"

"Do I have your word!"

"Yes, for God's sake," Balthazar snapped.

Satisfied, Castiel opened the car door, stopped only by how quickly and tightly Balthazar grabbed his arm.

"You're going to negotiate, right Cas?"

Castiel didn't respond and exited the car out onto the street, shutting the door behind him. He could hear Balthazar call out his name. It sounded frantic, full of doubt and fear, but Castiel ignored him. Truthfully, he didn't expect negotiation to be a part of the package. Castiel expected something else entirely; for his whole world to come crashing down on him. Maybe even die. Suddenly, he wondered if he'd welcome death or if he cared at all. To finally be away from the pain of this world..

None of that translated into the fluidity of his movements as Castiel crossed the street. He flicked his spent cigarette aside just as the wind blew, the updraft fanning wide his black pea coat in a sort of winged mockery. Castiel dipped his head low and held onto the black borsalino hat as he stepped into the family's establishment.

As soon as Castiel cleared the threshold—

"Ah. Castiel. How good of you to finally join us," Castiel heard Lucifer say.

—he was rushed by two figures, hands grabbing his arms tight. Castiel didn't put up a struggle or care to acknowledge them. He immediately searched for Dean and couldn't help but notice all the destruction—broken tables and chairs, Virgil gripping his shoulder as if he'd been shot. Dean had been badly beaten and was bound in a chair, barely conscious.

"Dean!" Castiel called out.

Dazed, Dean somehow had the wherewithal to look up at him. His face was still beautiful despite all the bruises. His lip was split open and blood was.. everywhere. It looked as if his family had spent hours beating him. _Fottuti bastardi_.

Castiel growled and struggled against.. whoever the fuck was holding him. On the one side of him, Alastair gripped tighter and grinned. "This'll be so much fun." Azazel was on Castiel's left side, sly smile on his lips. "Long time no see."

Castiel glared at Azazel while they hastily frisked him, searching for weapons. They found two. Crowley's Colt was the only gun carelessly thrown onto the bar. His precious .38 had been pocketed, no doubt, by either Alistair or Azazel. Castiel mentally marked the Colt's location before looking over to Dean. He looked so.. tired and worn, and it was devastating. Castiel just wanted this to be over. For Dean to be safe.

Castiel didn't have time to worry now. He strategically marked all the particulars; the proposed enemies, their locations, weapons and demeanor. Lucifer stood several feet in front of him, smug and dapper, with Michael on his left side. Michael appeared forlorn and incredibly tense. Castiel didn't have time to consider the potential ally. On Lucifer's right side, the twosome of Zachariah and Virgil mulled around Dean. Castiel weighed his options in the span of seconds, calculating distance, time and flow of events. The realization that he was outnumbered didn't deter or faze him.

"You have me," Castiel tilted his head toward Dean. "Let him go."

"No," Lucifer eased. "That isn't even an option." He glanced over at the gun taken from Castiel. "Packing light, I see. You really didn't plan on succeeding in rescuing him, did you. Barely tried. How disappointing. You seem almost... ready to die. You'd follow him blindly anywhere, wouldn't you? Even into the flames of Hell."

Castiel said nothing and didn't move.

"How admirable. So much loyalty. Sadly, it's misplaced. Your loyalty should lie with family."

"He _is_ my family," Castiel shot back.

"Oh? And what are we? Meaningless? We took you in when you had nothing."

"I still have nothing. You destroyed everything that I loved. Jimmy—"

"That was an accident," Lucifer quickly interjected.

"It doesn't matter. My entire life has been a lie. I was nothing but a tool to this family. There's no love here. It's just a means to an end."

"We loved—"

"Bullshit!" Castiel snapped. "I was 'loved'…" He raised his hands as much as he could to air quote. "…when I did what you wanted me to do. Now I'm going to do what _I_ want to do. And I want to be free. I choose freedom. Free will. Away from the oppression of this family."

Lucifer sighed, "There seems to be no room for arguing. No hopes of changing your mind. A pity. I had so many plans for you. It's unfortunate that it has to end like this."

Castiel struggled wildly when Lucifer raised the gun. But it wasn't toward Dean. Instead, it was to his left, gun's muzzle aimed toward Michael's head. Michael was too slow to react and fell over dead as soon as the sound of the bullet made it to Castiel's ears. He tensed immediately, bright blue eyes blown wide in shock.

Lucifer shrugged. "He would have been the first to betray me." He switched the gun to the other hand and aimed it toward Dean. "And now, we get rid of our little problem."

"Lucifer!" Castiel yelled.

To his horror, Lucifer smirked and took careful aim at Dean and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out and sounded more like a funeral pyre than anything else to Castiel. The bullet ripped a hole in Dean's chest and the front of him ran red. The way Dean slumped so.. lifelessly made something in Castiel snap. He became what he always should have been.

A cold, heartless killer.

With an unearthly growl, Castiel let slip the twin blades he had hidden in the sleeves of his pea coat. He palmed them comfortably and drove them downward. The knives sunk deeply into Alastair and Azazel, at their thighs, and Castiel twisted, fully opening the blood flow in his two victims. They stumbled away, holding their wounds and crying out. Castiel knew they'd bleed out in a matter of minutes. And by then, everything would be over.

Not a second wasted, Castiel threw those same blades into the awaiting throats of both his brothers Zachariah and Virgil, neither one of them quick enough to react before falling over. Shots from Lucifer began to pepper him, missing, while his brothers lay dying and choking on the floor. Castiel dove forward into a roll and scrambled to right himself, to grab the Colt from the countertop before slipping behind the bar—the perfect cover. He could already hear a second series of shots, cast off by Balthazar who had come in blazing. It was the perfect distraction.

Behind the bar, Castiel breathed evenly and spun open Colt's chamber to find four out of five bullets inside. Fuck. Perfect aim would be essential and there was no room for error. He spun it closed and turned to pass a brief glance toward Dean. Or where he should have been. The trail of blood indicated that he had been moved and that Balthazar had been successful.

If Castiel wanted Dean to have the chance to live, he would need to act now. Castiel stepped out into the open and was immediately met by a gunshot from his right side. The shot was impossibly wide and missed. Castiel could see the dying Azazel peripherally and didn't even need to look to squeeze off a shot. There was a sound of the gunshot and a dying groan—another threat extinguished.

Time was of the essence and he had nothing more to lose. With his guns held high and aimed to where Lucifer had taken cover, Castiel squeezed the trigger once. The bullet whizzed by and blasted a hole in the wood of the overturned table. Lucifer had no choice to stand up and out from behind his cover, discharging his own two bullets.

Unfortunately, Lucifer's hit their marks. And while Lucifer needed two bullets to slow him down, Castiel only needed one.

"I'll see you in Hell," came the weak whisper from Castiel's lips.

Crowley's Colt rang out and Lucifer fell over dead from the headshot, ending an era that should have never started—years that had added more suffering. Right then, it was almost as if Castiel could feel the pain of his entire life mounting inside of him. His chest ached with it, so real in its intense growth. Weakly, Castiel lifted a hand, searched beneath many layers of clothing to find the source of that agony… the bullets. Both of them had gone through his padded vest… and he was bleeding. Significantly bleeding. But it was a profound concern that had to wait. Castiel willed all of the pain and fear of his own well-being away in favor of Dean. His concern for him increased tenfold when he remembered that Dean too had been hurt. Gravely wounded, in fact.

He didn't want to think about it, any of it, and turned away from Lucifer's dead body instead. There was no time to bless the fallen. No time to mourn or even spare a thought for anything other than Dean. He was on the forefront of Castiel's mind and he would move Heaven and Hell just to save him.

"Dean…" Castiel whispered hoarsely into the dead air.

He spoke the name as if it would save his life, as if that alone could pull his weak body toward the only person he had ever truly loved. On unsure legs, Castiel followed the trail of blood that led him to the huddled forms. Balthazar was sitting on his knees with Dean draped over him, and his gun—

Pointed at Dean's head.

"Balthazar," Castiel hissed with concern.

Balthazar looked up at him, tears staining his eyes, expression torn with despair. Castiel's first response should have been to shoot him, to destroy anything and everything that threatened Dean and their happiness together. But this was Balthazar, his dear brother, the only one who had taken young Castiel under his wing. Balthazar had shown him the world, had helped him when he needed it the most. Balthazar had never failed him.

Until now..

"Is this what you would have me do? Watch idly as you lay waste to our family?"

"Balthazar…" Castiel whispered.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Balthazar looked down at Dean for a second's worth of contemplation before returning his eyes to Castiel. In that second, his dear brother had grown more in his sadness.

"Is he worth all of this? All of this… death?"

"Yes," Castiel said without missing a beat. "Yes. He's worth it. All of it. Death… heartache. All the years I've been in pain. My life… my _soul_. I did all of it. All of it... for him. To protect him. To ensure that he was happy and _safe_."

Balthazar stared at him for a long time, locked down tight with a clenched jaw. The tear that slid down his face said everything and nothing at all.

"I can't—" Balthazar began, struggling with his words. "You can't just get away with this. I won't let you. There has to be consequence for… destroying _everything_."

"Balthazar, please."

"We were brothers once. Family."

"We still are. Please. It doesn't have to end this way," Castiel pleaded.

"What choice do I have? There's nothing left. You destroyed everything because of this.. sick obsession you have for him."

Castiel didn't respond.

"Cassie, you _killed_ your family for—for _him_. How do you not see how _wrong_ that is? How can you not see how _broken_ that is?"

"It's not broken," Castiel stated evenly with no room for argument. It was with reluctance that Castiel lifted the gun, to line it up with Balthazar's head. There was simply no time left.

"I can't care about any of this right now, Balthazar. Not when he's dying. Not when he _needs_ me." Castiel swallowed hard, voice ragged and cracking. "He deserves to be saved because he saved _me_."

Balthazar couldn't say anything in response. What argument did he have?

_There's no time for this._

Castiel cocked the hammer. The sound was deafening, final. "Please. Put down the gun and let me help him."

"You know I can't do that."

Balthazar stared him down… and cocked his gun. Castiel wasn't prepared for how fiercely his heart started pumping, wasn't prepared for any of it. The adrenaline started to course through his system and his head swam with dizziness. But it was nothing compared to the sadness that plagued his soul, to the realization that he would have to defend his right to happiness again. To kill another family member… this time Balthazar. It was far too painful to even think about—so, he didn't. He turned off all feeling, everything, for Dean.

"Then you leave me no choice." His voice had come out far colder than he had intended, far more ruthless than he had ever wanted. Balthazar deserved more than that. "Forgive me," Castiel whispered softly.

Balthazar nodded, entirely too accepting. "Good bye, brother."

His dear brother could barely make another move before Castiel pulled the trigger. The gun rang out as the bullet was dispersed, laying Balthazar out dead on the floor with a shot to the head. To shield himself from the shock, to prevent him from seeing his brother's blood from spilling out onto the floor, Castiel closed his eyes. But closing his eyes didn't stop his heart from breaking, didn't stop his soul from dying just a little bit more. Moments like this were spent trying to keep himself from falling apart, from giving up and collapsing from the sheer weight of his despair. The thought of Dean, of losing him again, brought him back down to earth and away from his want to simply die.

Castiel opened his eyes and ignored the blood, moving quickly to Dean's side to check on his wound. It had been a close-quarter shot to the chest and had left a hole deep and wide. For anyone else, it would have been fatal, but for Dean Winchester… he held on with shallow breaths, clung to life just to cheat Death out of another soul. It was Dean's way of saying 'fuck you' to the world. It was clear, however, that Dean had little time left.

"I'm not going to let you die, Dean."

Castiel shifted his attention to Balthazar then and spent a quick blessing over him, mumbling words thickly and rapidly yet with more meaning and sincerity than he ever had for anyone else. He closed Balthazar's eyes with the brush of fingers before gathering Dean up in his arms, summoning up all the strength he could from his already-weak body. There was no room for failure here. And Dean's death? It wasn't even an option.

It took a lot of effort and struggle to get Dean out of the building and into the car. It was draining and left Castiel weak, nearly falling to the pavement after he had closed the backseat's car door. With Dean nestled in the back, Castiel had almost felt relieved.

"Just a little bit more," he told himself.

With a haggard cough, Castiel slipped into the front seat of the car, shut the door, and turned the ignition. The car sprang to life and shot down the road with a growl, leaving the devastation behind in a cloud of smoke. Castiel drove like a bat out of Hell down the back streets in an effort to avoid anything that would slow him down. His destination was a beacon of hope that he followed. He had to get there in time.

"Stay with me, Dean. Do you hear me?"

Castiel didn't expect an answer. But then…

"Cas..?" came Dean's quiet voice.

"Dean?" Castiel answered, shocked. "Dean?"

"What happ—"

"Shh. Don't talk. You're going to be okay. Stay with me."

Castiel zoomed through the streets with abandon, couldn't spare anymore thought to the dread the crept into his soul. He had to keep talking, just to hear Dean's voice, just to keep himself from giving up all hope.

"Dean..?"

"Cas," Dean answered back, barely above a whisper.

"I'm going to take care of you. You're going to be all right. Remember when you were sick with the flu? Right after you had come back from the vacation with your family? Do you remember, Dean..?"

"Yes…"

"I took care of you then, didn't I? And you got better. This isn't anything different, _amore mio_. I'll take care of you and you're going to be okay. And we'll be happy together."

"Cas…" Dean's voice was even weaker.

"Yes, Dean..?"

"I.." Dean began quietly. "I lo—"

"I know, Dean. I know." Castiel inhaled deeply and tried to keep the tears away. "Stay with me, Dean."

Silence.

"Dean..?"

No answer.

"Dean!"

And when Castiel didn't hear Dean respond, he completely fell apart. Tears fell onto cheeks as dread, and sadness and despair seized his chest with anxiety.

"Dean. Don't you dare fucking leave me here alone. I can't do this without you. I just... can't. Not again."

Castiel was almost there, almost at Doctor Robert's place, his salvation, the place where Dean would be patched up, nursed back to health and brought back to him.

"God… please." Castiel pleaded. "Please help me. Please don't take him away from me. I beg you.."

Castiel abandoned his prayer for concentration, to pull into the driveway of the doctor's home; he who would save Castiel's entire world. He parked and turned the ignition off, opened the door with the little strength he had left. It took everything he had in him to walk up to the home's door, to bang on it with a fervor he didn't know he had. A few seconds went by before the door opened to a familiar, smiling face.

"Castiel! What brings—" Doctor Robert began cheerfully.

"He's in the car…"

"Who—"

"Just fucking help him. He's been shot… doesn't have much time left."

"But you're—"

"I don't matter. Do you hear me?" Castiel rasped. "If he dies, you die. Am I clear?"

"Cas—"

"Am I clear!" Castiel growled. "Please… save him."

"Yes—"

And that was all Castiel needed to hear; a confirmation that his order, that his last wish would be honored. With it, Castiel felt relieved and fell to his knees—

"Jo! Ellen! I need some goddamn help out here!"

—before his world fell away to darkness.

_The large oak sprawled above them, boughs long and wide, shielding them from the heat of the sun. Through the leaves, rays of light gently touched their skin and faces, filling them with a sense of warmth… and hope. They were lying there together, hands intertwined, looking up through the foliage to find patches of blue sky. They were children again—the happiest time of their lives._

_Castiel inhaled the fresh air and turned to look at Dean. He looked incredibly beautiful. Because of the sun, his pale freckles were darker than they usually were and his eyes.. were an absolutely stunning shade of green. He could stay here and stare at Dean all day long, forever, and hoped that he could. Dean turned to look at him, tossed him a wink, and threw a piece of grass at him. Castiel couldn't help but giggle and then melt when Dean's bare foot started to rub against his own. Everything was.. perfect._

"_Can we just stay here together? Happy.. away from all the pain and sadness?" Castiel asked._

_Dean smiled at him. It was deep and genuine. "Yeah."_

_Castiel smiled back at him, "I'd like that."_

_Dean switched to lie on his side and brushed a finger down Castiel's nose. "Me too."_

_Castiel held his breath, closing his eyes in anticipation as Dean leaned in. He expected to feel Dean's lips on his own, expected them to embrace and fall into each other. But.. it never came._

_Castiel opened his eyes to the sky, tree limbs and leaves. The sunlight had been replaced with stormy clouds and a cold breeze that brought a sense of foreboding. And Dean was.. simply gone._

"_Dean..?"_

…

**Because of Him**

"_But instead, we become this. The only thing I think we have left, Dean and me, is each other."_

—_Castiel, "The End" (production draft only)_

_**Aurora, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day**_

"Dean!"

Castiel woke from the dream with a start, shooting upright into a sitting position. He was alive and the pain had dulled. It was all he could process before gentle hands tried to push him back down, before a voice tried to soothe him.

"Sir, please. Lie back down."

"No," he growled, struggling against the petite, pretty blonde girl who tried to tend to him. His vision was blurry. He was drugged.

"When my daughter says to lie back down, she means it, mister," came a more forceful voice from an older woman.

Both nurses struggled with him, tried to make him lay back down, but he wouldn't have it. He swatted at their hands rudely and pushed the younger blonde away from him. He had to get to Dean. He had to see if he was alive.

With another growl, and an odd surge of strength, Castiel jerked himself out of bed and nearly fell to the floor. He felt unsure on his feet, unstable, but he pushed through it and moved to the door with purpose. The two nurses scrambled after him, missed grabbing him when he stepped out into the hall.

"Goddamit. Get your skinny ass back here!" called the older nurse.

Castiel frantically searched each and every room to find Dean, each and every step growing more unsteady. When he finally did find Dean, Castiel nearly fell over from relief, catching himself on the doorframe to keep himself upright.

"Dean…" Castiel whispered gently.

He settled next to Dean ungracefully, pawed at him desperately to make sure that this wasn't a dream, that he was still alive. Dean's breathing was shallow, but he was alive.

"Dean. I'm here."

Castiel touched his face, brushed fingers against his clammy brow in sheer appreciation that Dean was still here, still with him.

"I'll never leave you."

And he never would. Not until Castiel saw those beautiful, green eyes again. All he wanted was to see those eyes, that smile, the way Dean threw a wink at him or touched him. Castiel had fought hard for those things, had sacrificed… _everything_ just to make sure that he'd have a future with those things.

Sacrificed everything…

The memory of his butchered family brought nothing but regret and tears to stain his eyes, to bring down the ice he had built around his heart. Now, here, he could mourn the loss of those he loved. Away from prying eyes, from the danger, from keeping Dean safe, he could properly.. grieve. All of it had been for Dean. He did all of it _because_ of Dean. And he was left to pick up the fragile pieces with no hope of putting them back together again.

Castiel leaned forward with the ounce of strength he had left and placed a kiss on Dean's lips. It was chaste, said everything in all of its simplicity.

"I'm not going to let you fight this on your own," Castiel whispered. "You're going to make it. You're Dean Winchester.."

He settled back into the chair beside Dean's bed and held his hand. He would watch over him until he saw those eyes again. No matter how long it took.

"I've got you. I promise."

[End]


End file.
